f ' CL i TV ^ h' U ^ ^ '" " ' 

THE 

POETICAL WORKS 

OF 

ROBERT BURNS, 

WITH A 

MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE, 

AND 

A GLOSSARY. 



LONDON: 
PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS, 

6Y WILLIAM MILNEB, HALIFAX. 

1837. 



W. MILKER, PRICTBR, SWI.NT. MAHKIT, HALIFAX. 



2 



7 



MEMOIR 



THE I.TFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



'kis celebrated Bard was born on the 29th of January, 1759, 
-i the banks of the Doon, about two miles from Ayr, near 
to which stand the ruins of Alloway Kirk, rendered immortal 
by his admirable Tale of" Tarn o' Sltanter." 

His father, William Burns, was a farmer in Ayrshire, a 
man of very respectable character, and of more than ordinary 
information and capacity. It is stated by Burns, that to 
his father's observations and experience, he was indebted 
for most of his little pretensions to wisdom. From such a 
son this eulogium cannot be thought undeserving. In 1757, 
he married Agnes Brown. Our Poet was the first fruit of 
this union. He was sent to school when about six years old, 
where he was taught to read English and to write a little ; 
and so great was his progress, that he became a critic in 
English Grammar at the age of eleven, and was also remark- 
able for the correctness of his pronunciation. His rudiments 
of arithmetic he got from his father in the winter evenings. 
He says of himself, in his letter to Doctor Moore, " At those 
A 2 



IV LIFE OP BURNS. 

years I was by no means a favourite with any body. I wa 

a good deal noted for u retentive memory, a stubborn sturd; 

something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot piety 

I say, idiot piety, because I waa then but ■ child. TbowJ 

it cost the schoolmaster some thrai 

English scholar; and by the time I wa< I 

of age, I was a critic in substan I 

In my infant and boyish days, too, h to an oh 

woman who resided in the famil; . 

ranee, credulity, and superstition. Sle 

largest collection in the country, of sal 

cerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warloekl 

spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lights, wrai 

tions, cantraips, giants, enchant . .^andothe: 

trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of i 

had so strong an effect on my imagination, that I 

in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look-ou 

in suspicious places; and though nobod] 

tical than I am in 6uch matters, yet it often tak 

of philosophy to shake off these idle ten 

Before he was nine years of age, lie had aoqwJi 
propensity for reading, which, hov 
by his want of access to books. He read the life 
through with great avidity, and eagerly perused every othe 
book that came in his way. Even at this early period, hi 
Bensibility was extraordinary; yet he had not discovers 
any signs of that striking ready wit for which th 
wards remarkable, nor betrayed the smallest symptom o 
his inclination to music and poetry. 

About a twelvemonth previous to the death of his father 
Burns, who had then attained his twenty-fourth yi 
anxious to be fixed in a situation to enable him 
His brother Gilbert and lie had for several yean held aamal 

portion of land from their father, on which they chiell; 

raised flax. In disposing of the produce of their labour, on 

Author took it into his hi ad to commence li 

He accordingly continued at that business t'^r about si: 

months, bat it proved an unlucky concern; tor the sho] 

some time after taking tire, was utter!; 

was left not worth a Sixpence! 

Immediately before the death of their father. Burns ant 
his brother took the farm at IfOfSglsl, IWHSSllllg Of IK 
acres, at £90 per annum. It was stocked by the ptOJMftJ 
and individual savings of the whole family, and was a join 



LIFE OF BURNS. V 

concern. But the first year, from buying bad seed, and the 
second from a late harvest, they lost half their crops. 

It -was about this time that he formed the connection with 
Miss Jean Armour, afterwards Mrs. Burns. When the effects 
of this intimacy could no longer be concealed, our Poet, in 
order to screen his partner from the consequences of their 
imprudence, agreed to make a written acknowledgment of 
their marriage, and then endeavour to push his fortune in 
Jamaica, till Providence enabled him to support a family 
comfortably. This was, however, strenuously opposed by 
her relations ; and her father, with whom she was a great 
favourite, advised her to renounce every idea of such an 
union, conceiving that a husband in Jamaica was little better 
than none. She was therefore prevailed upon to cancel the 
papers, and thus render the marriage null and void. When 
this was mentioned to Burns, he was in a state bordering on 
distraction. He offered to stay at home, and provide for 
his family in the best manner possible ; but even this was 
rejected." 

He then agreed with a Dr. Douglas to go to Jamaica, as 
an assistant overseer or clerk, and made every preparation 
to cross the Atlantic ; but, previous to his setting off, he was 
advised to publish a volume of his poems by subscription. 
With the first fruits of his poetical labours, he paid his pas- 
sage, and purchased a few articles of clothing, &c. His 
chest was already on the way to Greenock, when a letter 
from Dr. Blacklock, signifying his approbation of the poems, 
and an assurance that Burns would meet with encourage- 
ment in Edinburgh for a second edition, completely changed 
his intentions. 

Soon after his arrival in Edinburgh, (early in December, 
1786,) his poems procured him the admiration of all condi- 
tions. Persons of rank and power were not above taking 
notice of him ; and in a short time the name of Bums was 
celebrated over all the kingdom. It ought here to be men- 
tioned to his honour, that he had been in Edinburgh only 
a few months, and was still in the midst of poverty, 
when he erected a monument in Canon-gate church-yard 
to the memory of the celebrated but unfortunate poet, 
Fergusson. 

In Edinburgh, Burns beheld mankind in a new light. 
Surrounded on all sides by admirers, his days were spent in 
the company of the great, his evenings in dissipation. This 
kind of life he led nearly a twelvemonth, when his friends 



VI LIFE OP burns; 

suggested to him the necessity of seeking a ptOMBj 

establishment. 

Hating settled accoums with his publisher in Febru; 
1788, Burns became master of nearly £600. With this s 
he returned to Ayrshire, where he found tut G 

struggling to support their aged mother, a jranag 
and three sisters in the farm of Moaegfa 1. Be immediat 
advanced .£200 to their relief. With the remainder, a 
what further profits mifzht accrue to him from It is pool 
Burns seriously resolved to settle for life, and resume 
occupation of agriculture. 

Mr. Miller, of Dalswinton, offered him the choice ol 
farm on his estate athisown terms. Burns readily aecep 
this generous offer. He took with him two frii 
the land, and fixed on the farm of Ellis'.and, about six mi 
above Dumfries, on the banks of the river Nith, on wh 
he entered at Whitsunday. 1788. 

Previously to this period, however, he had been reco 
mended to the Board of Excise, by Mr. Graham, of Finl 
and had his name enrolled among the list of Candida!, s 
the humble office of an exciseman. Expecting that the lk> 
would appoint him to act in the district where his farm \ 
situated, he began assiduously to qualify himself for 
proper exercise of the employment, in the fond hopes 
60on uniting with success the labours of the farmer with 
duties of his new profession. 

No sooner had he arranged the plan of his future p 
suits, than his whole thoughts were bent towards the obj 
who had ever been nearest and clearest to his heart. I 
relations now endeavoured to promote their union w 
more zeal than they had formerly opposed it ; and they w 
immediately united by a regular marri 
their union, and rendering ii pennant nl Bar life. 

His fame naturally drew open him the attention of 
neighbours, and he soon formed a general acquaintance 
the district in which he lived. Their social parties, ht 
ever, loo often seduced him from his rustic labours and 
ruslie fare, overthrew the unsteady I'abrie of !:•- 

and inflamed those propensities which tens. 

have weakened, and prudence ultimately suppress) d. it i 

not lone, therefore, before Burns began to riew his fa 

with dislike an I despondence, if not with disgust. 

Unfortunately he had for several years looked to an of 

in the excise as a certain means of livelihood, should 



LIFE OF BUKNS. VII 

other expectations fail. As has already been mentioned, he 
had been recommended to the Board of Excise, and had 
received the instructions necessary for such a situation. He 
now applied to be employed ; and, by the interest of Mr. 
Graham, of Fintra, was appointed to be exciseman, or, as it 
is vulgarly called, gauger, of the district in which he lived. 
The duties of this disagreeable situation, besides exposing 
him to numberless temptations, occupied that part of his 
time which ought to have been bestowed in cultivating his 
farm ; which, after this, was in a great measure abandoned 
to servants. It is easy to conjecture the consequences. 
Notwithstanding the moderation of the rent, and the prudent 
management of Mrs. Burns, he found it convenient, if not 
necessary, to resign his farm into the hands of Mr. Miller, 
after having possessed it for the space of three years and a 
half. The stock and crop being afterwards sold by public 
auction, he removed, with his family, to a small house in 
Dumfries, about the end of the year 1791, to devote himself 
to an employment which seemed from the first to afford but 
little hopes of future happiness. 

He resided four years at Dumfries. During this time he 
had hoped for promotion in the excise ; but an event oc- 
curred which at least delayed its fulfilment. The events of 
the French revolution were commented on by him in a 
manner very different from what might have been expected 
from an officer under government. Information of this 
was given to the Board of Excise. A superior officer in 
that department was authorized to enquire into his conduct. 
Burns defended himself in a letter addressed to one of the 
Board, written with great independence of spirit, and with 
more than his accustomed eloquence. The officer appointed 
to enquire into his conduct gave a favourable report. His 
steady friend, Mr. Graham, of Fintra, interposed his good 
offices in his behalf; and he was suffered to retain his situa- 
tion, but was given to understand that his promotion was 
deferred, and must depend upon his future behaviour. 

In the month of June, 1706, he removed to Brow, in 
Annandale, about ten miles from Dumfries, to try the effect 
of sea-bathing ; a remedy that at first, hefeimagined, relieved 
rheumatic pains in his limbs, with which he had been 
afflicted for some months : but this was immediately followed 
by a new attack of fever. When brought back to his own 
house in Dumfries, on the 18th of July, he was no longer 
able to stand upright. The fever increased, attended with 



viii LIFE OF BURNS 

delirium and debility, and on the 21st he expired, in the 
thirty-eighth year of his acre. He left a widow and four 
sons. The ceremonial of his interment was accompanied 
with military honours, not only by the corps of Dumfries 
volunteers, of which he was a member, Nut by tin- 1-Vneible 
Infantry, and a regiment of the Cinque Port Cnulry, then 
quarted" in Dumfries. 



DEDICATION. 

TO 

THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 

OF THE 

CALEDONIAN HUNT. 



My Lords and Gentlemen, 

A Scottish 3ard, proud of the name, and whose highest 
ambition is to sing in his Country's service — where shall he 
so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious names of 
his native land; those who bear the houours'and inherit the 
virtues of their ancestors ? The Poetic Genius of my country 
found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha— at the 
■plough, and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She 
bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes, and rural 
pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue : I tuned 
my wild, artless notes as she inspired. — She whispered me 
to come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and lay 
my Songs under your honoured protection : I now obey her 
dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not ap- 
proach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of 
dedication, to thank you for past favours ; that path is so 



X DEDICATION. 

hackneyed by prostituted Learning, that honest Rusticity is 
ashamt'il of it. N<ir do I present this Address with the venal 
soni of a Bervile ;t".tiior, looking for s conttnoation of those 
favours : I was bred to the plough, and am Independent. I 

come to claim the common Scottish name with yon, my 
illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell the world that I glory 
in the title. I come to congratulate my country, that the 
blood of her ancient heroes still runs uneontaminated ; and 
that from your courage, knowledge, and public spirit, she 
may expert protection, wealth, ami liberty. In the last 
place, I come to proffer my warm, st wishes to tin- Great 
Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your 
welfare and happiness. 

When you go forth to waken the Echoes, in the ancient 
ami favourite amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure 
ever be of your party ; and may Social Joy await your re- 
turn: when harrassed in courts or camps, with the jostlingi 
of bad men and had measures, may the In. nest consciousness 
of injured Worth attend your return to your native seats; 
and may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet 
you at your gates ! May Corruption shrink at your kindling, 
indignant glance ; and may tyranny in the Ruler, and 
licentiousness in the People, equally find yon an inexorable 
foe! 

I have the honour to be, 

With the sincerest gratitude, and highest respect, 

My Lords and Gentlemen, 

Your most devoted humble Servant, 

ROBERT BUBN& 

Edinburgh, April 4, 1787. 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

The Twa Dogs, a Tale 1 

Scotch Drink 8 

The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer 13 

The Holy Fair 19 

Death and Doctor Hornbook 26 

The Brigs of Avr 33 

The Ordination". 40 

The Calf 44 

Address to the Deil 45 

The Death and dying Words of Poor Mailie. ... 50 

Poor Mailie's Elegy 52 

To James Smith, Mauehline 54 

A Dream 60 

The Vision 64 

Address to the unco Gude 74 

Tam Samson's Elegy 76 

Halloween 80 

The Farmer's Salutation to his auld Mare Maggie 90 

To a Mouse "94 

A Winter Night 96 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet 99 

The Lament 103 

Despondency, an Ode 106 

Winter, a Dirge 108 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 109 

Man was made to mourn, a Dirge 115 

A Prayer in the Prospect of Death 118 

Stanzas on the same Occasion 119 

Verses left at a Friend's House 120 

The First Psalm 121 



A Prayer under the Pressure of violent Anguish 190 

The first Six Verses of the Nineteenth Psalm . ■ 1-2 

To a Mountain Daisy 123 

To Ruin 129 

To Miss Logan 126 

Epistle to a Young Friend ib. 

On a Scotch Bard gone to the West Indies 129 

To a Haggis 131 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq 138 

To a Louse 1^7 

Address to Edinburgh 139 

Epistle to J. Lapruik, an old Scottish Bard 141 

To the same 145 

To William Simpson, Ochiltree 140 

Epistle to John Rankin, enclosing some Poems 165 

Written in Friars-Carsc Hermitage, on Nithside 158 

Ode, Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. of ldfl 

Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson 101 

Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots 16S 

To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintru Ki7 

Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn 170 

To Sir John Whitefoord, with the foregoing Poem 1 72 

Tarn o' Sbanter, a Tale 173 

On seeing a wounded Hare limp by me 17: » 

Address to the Shade of Thomson 180 

On the late Captain Grose's Perigrinations .... 181 

To Miss ( 'ruikshaiiks, a very young Lady ls:J 

On the Death ofJohn M'Leod,&c *. 181 

The humble Petition of Bruar Water 188 

On scaring some Water-Fowl, in LochTurit .. L8fl 

Written in the Inn at Keiiuiuic, Taymoiitlt .... 180 

Written at the Fall of Fyers, near Loch-Ness . . 190 

On the Birth of a Posthumous child IM 

Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet 199 

Lines on an Interview with Lord Daer i;»t 

On die Death of a Lap-Dog named Echo 195 

Inscription to the Memory of PergUBtOD 190 



CONTENTS. Xiii 

Page. 

Epistle to R. Graham, Esq 196 

Fragment, inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox 199 

To Dr. Blacklock 200 

Prologue spoken at the Theatre, Dumfries .... 203 

Elegy on the late Miss Burnet of Monboddo 204 

The Rights of Woman 205 

Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle 206 

Verses to a Young Lady 208 

Verses addressed'to a Lady ib. 

Address to Mr. William Tytler 209 

To a Gentleman on receiving a Newspaper .... 210 

Poem on Pastoral Poetry 212 

Sketch.— New Year's Day 213 

Extempore on the late Mr. William Smellie 215 

Poetical Inscription for an Altar to Independence ib. 

Answer to a Mandate 216 

To a Young Lady 218 

Extempore ib. 

To Mr. S**e, with a Present of Porter ib. 

Poem, addressed to Mr. Mitchell 219 

Sent to a Gentleman whom he had offended .... 220 

Poem on Life ib. 

Address to the Tooth-ache 222 

Holy Willie's Prayer 223 

Epitaph on Holv Willie 226 

The Kirk's Alarm 227 

Letter to John Goudie, Kilmarnock 230 

The Twa Herds 231 

To Mrs. Dunlop, on Sensibility 234 

Sonnet on hearing a Thrush 235 

To the Guidwife of Wauchope Hause 236 

To J. Ranken 238 

Address to an Illegitimate Child 239 

To a Tailor 240 

Lament of a Mother for the Death of her Son . . 242 

Sonnet on the Death of Robert Riddel, Esq 243 

On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair 244 



XIV CONTENTS- 

Pa?e. 

Letter to J 9 T 1, oi' Gl— nc— r 

Verses on a Young Lady 248 

Lmes presented toanom Sweetheart, then man'' 

Extempore.— The Invitation -2V.) 

Written in a I Book .. ib. 

Lines on Miss J. Scott, of Ayr ib. 

EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, 

On a celebrated Ruling Elder 2'A) 

On a Noisy Polemic ib. 

On Wee Johnny ib. 

For the Author's Fat her ib. 

For Robert Aiken, Esq 261 

For Gavin Hamilton, Esq ib. 

A Bard's Epitaph ib. 

On John Dove 968 

On a Friend 

On a Wag, in Mauchline ib. 

The Henpeck'd Husband ib. 

The Highland Welcome 254 

A Grace before Dinner ib. 

On Captain Grose ib. 

SONGS AND BALLADS. 

The Jolly Beggars 255 

The Rigso' Barley 

Now Westlin Winds 

Behind yon Hills where Lugar Bows 278 

Green grow the Bashes 271 

Again Rejoicing .Nature sees 

The gloomy Night is gath'ring fast 278 

From thee, Eliza, I must go 274 

The Farewell 

No Churchman am I 276 

Highland Mary 277 

Aold Ho!> Morris 278 

Duncan Gray 279 



CONTENTS. XV 

Page. 

Galla Water 280 

The Soldier's Return 281 

Meg o' the Mill 283 ' 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide ib. 

The Lea-Rig 285 

Wandering Willie ib. 

Had I a Cave on some wild, distant Shore .... 286 

Whistle and I'll come to thee, my Lad ib. 

Dainty Davie 287 

Auld Lang Syne 288 

Robert Brace's Address at Bannockburn 289 

Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes 290 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. . c 291 

Lassie wi' the Lint- white Locks 292 

For a' that and a' that 293 

O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet 295 

Her Answer. — O tell na me o' wind and rain . . ib. 
Their Groves o' sweet Myrtle 296 

this is na my ain Lassie 297 

•Scottish Ballad. — Last May a braw wooer 298 

Jjey for a Lass wi' a Tocher 299 

Here's a Health to ane I lo'e dear 300 

The Birks of Aberfeldy 301 

Blith was she 302 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves .... ib. 

1 love my Jean. — Of a' the airts the whid can blaw 303 

Willie brew'd a Peck o' Maut 304 

Tarn Glen 305 

What can a young Lassie do wi' an auld man?. . 306 

O, for ane and twenty, Tam 307 

The Banks o' Doon ib. 

Sic a Wife as Willie had 308 

Wilt thou be my Dearie ? 309 

She's fair and fause . , ib. 

O wat ve wha's in von Town 310 

The red, red Rose" 311 

Song of Death 312 



XTl CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Imitation of an old Jacobite Song 313 

To Mary in Heaven , , ib. 

Naebody 314 

To Mary 315 

Bonnie Lesley 316 

Mary Morison 317 

Blitbe hae I been on yon hill ib. 

Bonnie Jean 318 

Tibbie, I hae seen the day 320 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie 3-21 

Fair Jenny 988 

Husband, husband, cease your strife ib. 

How lang and dreary is the nigrht 324 

It was the charming month of .May ib. 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wr inair 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy .' 320 

My Nannie's awa ib. 

'Twas na her bonnie blue ee was my ruin 327 

Fairest Maid on Devon banks * 328 

The Young Highland Rover ib. 

Where braving angry Winter's Storms 38J 

The Braes o' Ballochmyle iB 

Farewell thou Stream that winding flows 381 

John Anderson my jo 33 1 

A Rose-bud by my earlv walk ib. 

The jovful Widower . .' 388 

Fair Eliza 889 

The parting Kiss 334 

Musing on the roaring < )cean ib. 

Lord Gregory 886 

Open the Door to me, oh ! 330 

Clarinda 337 

Craigie-burn ib. 

Isabella.— Raving Winds around her blowing .. 338 
The Whistle.— I sing of a Whistle 330 

Glossauy 343 



POEMS, 
CHIEFLY SCOTTISH, 



THE TWA DOGS, 

A TALE. 

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
"When wearing through the afternoon, 
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Ccesar, 
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure; 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs, 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His lockit, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar j 
But though he was o' high degree, 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin 
Wi' ony tinkler gipsy's messin : 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stant't as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, roving billie, 



I BURNS' P0EM6. 

Wha for his friend and comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang,* 
Was made lang syne — Gude kens how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
As every lap a sheuirh or dyke : 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt'face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat- o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
And unco pack and thick thegither : 
Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit ; 
Whiles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; 
Whiles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 
And worried ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' dafhn weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression, 
About the lonls of the creation. 



I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you hate; 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd a\a. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents. 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents; 
He rises when he likes himsel' ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell : 
He ca's his coach ; he ca's his horse ; 
lie draws a bonny silken pane, 

• Ctu'luillin's dog in Ossiun's PingaL 



burns' poems. 

As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks, 
The yellow-letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
And though the gentry first are stechin, 
Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 
That's Utile short o' downright wastrie, 
Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner 
Better than ony tenant man, 
His Honour has in a' the Ian' ; 
And what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 



Trowth, Caesar, whiles they're fash't eneugh ; 

A cottar howkin in a sheugh, 

Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 

Baring a quarry, and sic like ; 

Himsel', a wife', he thus sustains, 

A smytrie o' wee duddy weans, 

And nought but his han' darg to keep 

Them right and tight in thack and rape. 

And when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want of masters, 
Ye mast wad think, a wee touch langer 
And they maun starve o' cauld and hunger ; 
But how it conies I never kend yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 



But then, to see how ye're negleckit, 
How huff 'd, andcuff'd, and disrespeckit ; 
b2 



I BURNS' POEMS. 

L— d man ! our gentry care sae little 
For delver9, ditchers, 'and sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor folk, 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've noticed, on our Laird's court -day 
And mony a time my heart's been war, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they mon thole a factor's snash ; 
He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear; 
While they maim stau', wi' aspect bumble, 
And bear it a', and fear and tremble ! 
I see how folk live that hae riches; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches. 



They're naesae wretched's ane wad think; 
Though constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae aceustora'd wi the siu r iu, 
The view o't gi'es them little fright. 

Then chance and fortune are sae guided, 
They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
And though fatigued wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans ami faithi'u' vrivefl ; 
The prattling things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

And whiles twalpenny worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs : 

They'll talk o' patronage and pri il 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts ; 
Or tell what new taxation's coinin, 
And ferlie at the folk in LoiCon. 



BURNS POEMS. 

As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns, 
They get the jovial, rantin kirns, 
When rural life o' every station, 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins 
They bar the door on frosty win's; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The lunting pipe, and sneeshing mill, 
Are handed round wi' right gude-will ; 
The canty auld folk cracking crouse," 
The young anes ranting through the house. 
My heart has been sae fain to see them. 
That I for joy haebarkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre often play'd. 
There's mony a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest-fassont folk, 
Are riven out bait.h root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin, 
For Britain's gude his saul indentin. — 



Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 

For Britain's gude ! gude faith, I doubt it ! 

Say rather, gaun, as Premiers lead him, 

And saying ay or lid's they bid him ! 

At operas and plays parading, 

Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading 

Or maybe, in a frolic daft, 

To Hague or Calais taks a waft, 



) BUHXS' POEMS. 

To mak a tour and tak a whirl, 
To learn bon ton, and see the warP. 

There, at Vienna or Vi r 
He rives his father's anld entails ; 
Or by Madrid he takes the route, 
To thrum guitars and fetcht wi' nowt ; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh-re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles; 
Then bouses drumly German water, 
To mak himsel look fair and fatter, 
And clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love-gifts of carnival signoras, 
For Britain's gudel for "her destruction! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction. 



Hech, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae monie a braw estate ? 
Are we sae foughten and harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ? 

O wad they stay aback frae courts, 
And please themsels wi' country sports, 
It wad for every ane be better, 
The laird, the tenant, and the cottar ! 
For the frank, rantin, rambling billies, 
Fient haet u' them's ill-hearted fellows, 
Except for breaking o' their timmer, 
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shooting o' a hair or moor-cock. 
The ne'er a bit they'r ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Rffaister < tow, 
Sure great folk's life's a liie of pleasure ! 

Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer tliem. 
The very thought o't needua tear tin m. 



burns' poems. 



L — d, man ! were ye but whiles whare I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true, they needna starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
And fill auld age wi' grips and granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They mak enow themselves to vex them, 
And aye the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them: 
A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh; 
A country lassie at her wheel ; 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel ; 
But gentlemen, and ladies warst, 
Wi' evendown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging^ lank and lazy ; 
Though de'il haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless; 
And e'en their sports, their balls, and races, 
Their galloping through public places ; 
There's sic parade, sic pomp and. art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches, 
Then souther a' in deep debauches ; 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring, 
Ts T eist day their life is past enduring. 
The ladies arm-in-arm, in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear then- absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' run de'ils and jades thegither. 
Whiles, owre the wee bit cup and plaitie, 
They sip the scandal-potion pretty ; 



\ burns' poems. 

Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks, 
Pore owre the devil's picture-beuks; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stack-yard, 
And cheat like ony nnhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man and woman; 
But this is gentry's life in common. 

By this the sun was out o' sight, 
And darker gloamin brought the night ; 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone, 
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan ; 
When up they gat and shook their lugs, 
Rejoiced they were na men but dogs ; 
And each took aff his several way, 
Resolved to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 

Gie him strong drink until he wink, 

That's sinking in despair ; 
And liquor gude to fire his hlude, 

That's prest wi' grief and care : 
There let him bouse, and deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts, 

And minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs, sxxi. C 



Let other poets raise a fracas, 

'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus, 

And crabbit names and stories wrack us, 

And grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scotch Bear can niak us, 

In glass or jug. 
O thou, my Muse ! gude auld Scotch Brink ! 
Whether through wimpling worms thou jink, 



burns' poems. 

Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, 

In glorious faern, 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, 

To sing thy name ! 

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, 
And aits set up their awniehorn, 
And pease and beans at e'en or morn, 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain ! 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumblin in the boiling flood 

WP kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin, 
When heavy dragg'd wi pine and grievin; 

But, oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down hill, scrievin, 

Wi' rattlin glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 

At's weary toil; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy siller weed, 
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head : 
Yet humbly kind, in time o' need. 

The poor man's wine; 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 



,0 BURNS' POEMS. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 

But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saints, 

By thee inspired, 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 

Are doubly fired. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin on a New-year mornin 

In cog or bicker, 
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, 

And gusty sucker! 

"When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 
And ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
O rare ! to see thee fizz and freath 

I' the luggit caup ! 
Then Burnewin* comes on like death 

At ev'ry chaup. 

Nae mercy then for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel 

The strong forehammer, 
Till block and studdie ring and reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, 
How fumblin cuifs their dearies slight ; 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 



' Burnemin— Burn— the— ■wind— the Blacksmith. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

When neebors anger at a plea, 
And jnst as wud as wud can be, 
How easy can the barley bree 

Cement the quarrel ! 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ; 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 
And hardly, in a winter's season, 

E'en spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash ! 
Fell source o' monie a pain and brash ! 
Twins monie a poor, doylt drucken hash 

O hauf his days ; 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless deevils like mysel ! 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, deartkfu' wines to mell, 

Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench, 
And gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

O' sour disdain, 
Out-owre a glass o' whisky-punch. 

Wi' honest men. 

O Whisky! soul o' plays and pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks ! 



•Z BURKS' POEMS. 

When wantin thee, what tuneless cranks 
Are my poor verses ! 

Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks 

At ilher's a — s ! 

Thee Ferintosh ! O sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now colic grips, and barking - hoast, 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' charter' d boast, 

Is ta'en awa ! 

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky S tells their prize ! 
Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! 

There, seize the blinkers ; 
An' bake them up in brunstane pies, 

For poor d — n'd drinkers. 

Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, and Whisky gill, 
And routh o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak a' the rest, 
And deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



BURNS' POEMS. 13 

THE AUTHOR'S 

EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* 

TO THE 

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOUSE OP 

COMMONS. 



Dearest of Distillation ! last and best — 

How art thou lost! 

Parody on Milton. 



Ye Irish lords, ye knights and squires, 
Wha represent our brughs and shires, 
And doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament, 
To you a simple Poet's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roupet muse is hearse ! 

Your Honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, 

To see her sitting on her a — 

Low i' the dust, 
And scriechin out prosaic verse, 

An' like to brust ! 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' me's in great affliction, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On Aquavit 02 ; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction, 

An' move their pity. 

* This was written before the act anent the Scottish Dis- 
tilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the author 
return their most grateful thanks. 



14 burns' poems. 

Stand forth, and tell yon Premier Youth, 

The honest, open, naked truth ; 

Tell him o' mine and Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble : 
The muckle deevil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble ! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ! 
Speak out, and neverfash your thumb : 
Let posts and pensions sink or soom 

Wi 5 them wha grant 'em ; 
If honestly they canna come, 

Par better want 'em. 

In gatherin votes you were na slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, and fidge your back, 

And hum and haw ; 
But raise your arm, and tell your crack 

Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissel, 
Her mutchkin-stoup as toom's a whissel ; 
And damm'd Excisemen in a bussel, 

Seizin a Stell, 
Triumphant, crushin't like a mussel, 
Or lampit shell. 

Then, on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard smuggler right behint her, 
And cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner, 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking per pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's blude rising hot, 



burns' poems. 15 

To see his poor auld Mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 

Alas! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trod i' the mire clean out o' sight ! 
But could I like MontgomWie fight, 

Or gab like Boswell, 
There's some sark-neeks I wad draw tight, 

And tie some hose well. 

God bless your honours ! can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An' gar them hear it, 
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat, 

Ye winna bear it ! 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period an' pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' St. Stephen's wa's, 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a true-blue Scot I'se warran ; 
Thee, aith-detesting chaste Kilkerran ;* 
An' that glib-gabbet Highland baron, 

The laird o' Graham ;t 
An' ane, a chap that's d — n'd auldfarran, 

Dundas his name. 

JErsMne, a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Campbells, Frederick, an' Ilay ; 



* Sir Adam Ferguson, 
t The present Duke of Montrose.— (1800.; 



16 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie; 

An' mony ithers, 
Wham auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith, I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

You'll see't or lang. 
She'll teaeh you, wi' a reekin whittle, 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in cank'rous mood, 
Her lost militia fired her bluid; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie !) 
And now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her whisky. 

An', L — d, if ance they pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt 

I' th' first she meets ! 

For God sake, sirs ! then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, 

To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongued tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers and mocks; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie, 
And send him to his dicing-box 

And sportin lady. 



burns' poems. 17 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld BoconnocTis, 
I'll be Ills debt twa mashlum bannocks, 
An' drink his health in auld JSanse Tinnoc&s* 

Nine times a week. 
If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in gude braid Scotch, 
He needna fear their foul reproach, 

Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtre, queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a deevil wi' a rung; 
An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 
Though by the neck she should be strung, 

She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-forty ; 
May still your Mither's heart support ye ; 
Then, though a minister grow dorty, 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor and hearty, 

Before his face. 

God bless your Honours a' your days, 
Wi' soups o' kail and brats o' claise, 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes 

That haunt St. Jamie's! 
Your humble poet sings an' prays 

While Rab his name is. 



* A worthy old hostess of the author's in Mauchline, where 
he sometimes studied politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch 
Drink. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



POSTSCRIPT. 



Let hauf-starved slaves in warmer skies, 
See future wines rich clustering rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But blythe and frisky, 
She eyes her free-born, martial boys, 

Tak afF their whisky. 

What though their Phoebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! 
When wretches range in famish'd swarms 

The scented groves, 
Or bounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; 
They downa bide the stink o' powther; 
Their bauldest thought's a hankering s wither 

To stan' or rin, 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther, 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, sic is royal George's will, 

And there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him; 
Death comes ! — wi' fearless ee he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; 

An' when he fa's 
His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him 

In faint huzzas. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Sages their solemn een may steek, 
And raise a philosophic reek, 
And physically causes seek, 

In clime and season; 
But tell me Whisky*s name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! 
Though whyles ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your dam : 
Freedom and Whisky gan thegither, 

Tak aff your dram ! 



THE HOLY FAIR.* 



A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty observation ; 
And secret hung, with poison 'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd, 

Dye-varying on the pigeon; 
And for a mantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him in religion. 

Hypocrisy a-la-Mode. 



Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face was fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

And snuff the caller air : 
The rising sun o'er Gcdston muris, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin ; 
The hares were hirpling down the furs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantin 
Fu' sweet that day. 

* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland 
for a Sacramental occasion. 
c 2 



20 BURNS' POEMS. 

As lightsoinely I glowr'd abroad, 

To see a scene so gay, 
Three hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin up the way : 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining; 
The third, that gaed a-wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining, 

Fu' gay thafday. 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, and claes ; 
Their visage wither' d, lang, and thin, 

And sour as ony slaes : 
The third cam up, hap-stap-and-loup, 

As light as ony iambie, 
And wi' a kutchie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 

Wi' bonnet afF, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonny face, 

But yet I canna name ye.' 5 
Quo' she, and laughing as she spak, 

An' taks me by'the hands, 
" Ye for my sake, hae gi'en the feck 

Of a' the Ten Commands 

A screed some day. 

" My name is Fun — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
And this is Superstition here, 

And that Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to ******** Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in damn : 
Gin ye'll gae there, yon runkled pair, 

We will get famous laughin 

At them this day." 



burns' poems. 21 

Quoth I, " Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't ; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
And meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin!" 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, 

And soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad frae side to side, 

Wi' mony a weary body, 

In droves that day. 

Here farmers gash, in riding graith, 

Gaed hoddin by their cottars ; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid claith, 

Are swingin o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, 

In silks and scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang," 

And farls baked wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

And we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show, 

On every side they're gatherin, 
Some gathering dales, some chairs and stools, 

And some are busy blethrin 

Right loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An' screen our countra Gentry, 
There racer Jess, an' twa- three wh-res, 

Are blinkin at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittlin jades, 

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck, 
And there a batch o' wabster lads, 

Blackguardin frae K ck 

For fun this day. 



!2 burns' poems. 

Here some are thinkin on their sins, 

An' some upon their claes; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs and prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin on the lasses 

To cha'rs that day. 

O happy is that man and blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin down beside him. 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back, 

He sweetly does compose him, 
Which by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom, 

Unkenn'd that day. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation ; 
For M***ie speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-t — n. 
Should Hornie as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' G — present him, 
The vera sight o' M***ie's face, 

To's ain het home had sent him 
"Wi' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith, 

Wi' rattlin and wi' thumpin ; 
How meekly calm, how wild in wrath, 

He's stampin and he's jumpin! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn' d-up snout, 

His eldritch squeel and gestures, 
Oh! how they fire the heart devout, 

Like eantharidian plasters, 
On sic a day. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice ; 

There's peace and rest nae langer ; 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna sit for anger. 
S**th opens out his cauld harangues 

On practice and on morals ; 
And aff the godly pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars and barrels 
A lift that day. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral powers and reason ? 
His English style, and gestures fine, 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antomine, 

Or some auld pagan heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But near a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 
For P**bles, frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' G — , 

And meek and mim has view'd it, 
While Common Sense has ta'en the road, 

And aff, and up the Cowgate,* 
Fast, fast that day. 

Wee M****r, neist, the guard relieves, 

And Orthodoxy raibles, 
Though in his heart he weel believes, 

And thinks it auld wife's fables : 
But faith ! the birkie wants a manse, 

So cannily he hums them ; 

* A street so called which faces the tent in K- 



Si BURNS POEMS. 

Although his carnal wit and sense 
Like haffiins-ways o'ercomes him, 
At times that day. 

Now butt and ben the change-house fills 

Wi' yill-caup commentators ; 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 

And there the pint-stoup clatters ; 
While thick and thrang, and loud and lang 

Wi' Logic and wi 5 Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 

Leeze me on Drink ! it gies us mair 

Than either School or College, 
It kindles Wit, it waukens Lear, 

It pangs us fu' o' Knowledge : 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion, 

By night or day. 

The lads and lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul and body, 
Sit round the table, weel content, 

And steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, and that ane's leuk, 

They're making observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

And forming assignations, 

To meet some day. 

But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin, 
And echoes back return the shouts : 

Black R****l is na spairin ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 

His piercing words, like Highland swords, 
Divide the joints and marrow ; 

His talk o' H-ll, whare devils dwell, 
Our vera sauls does harrow !* 

Wf fright that day. 

A vast unbottom'd boundless pit, 

Fill'd fu' o' lowin brunstane, 
Wha's ragin flame, and schorchin heat, 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! 
The hauf asleep start up wi' fear, 

And think they hear it roarin, 
"When presently it does appear, 

'Twas but some neighbour snorin 
Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How mony stories past, 
And how they crowded to the yill, 

When they were a' dismist ; 
How drink gaed round, in cogs and canps, 

Amang the furms and benches, 
And cheese and bread, frae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches, 

An' dawds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash Gudewife, 

And sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck and her knife ; 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld Gudemen, about the grace, 

From side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

And gies them't like a tether, 
Fu' lang that day. 

* Shakspeare's Hamlet. 



&> BURNS' POEMS. 

Waesuck's for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace, 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel, 

How bonnie lads ye wanted, 
And dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day. 

Now Clbikumbell, wi' rattlin tow, 

Begins to jow and croon ; 
Some swagger hame the best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith and hope, and love and drink, 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How mony hearts this day converts, 

O' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts a stane, gin night are gane 

As soft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
An' mony jobs that day begin, 

May end in Houghmagandie 
Some ither day. 



DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE STORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Ev'n ministers, they hae been kenn'd, 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times to vend. 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befell, 
Is just as true 's the Deil's in hell, 

Or Dublin city ; 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel 

'S a muckle pity. 

The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I was na fou, but just had plenty ; 

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay 

To free the ditches : 
And hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn'd ay 

Frae ghaists and witches. 

The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre ; 
To count her horns wi' a' my pow'r 

I set mysel ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I cou'dna tell. 

I was come round about the hill, 
And todlin down on IVillie's mill, 
Setting my staff, wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker ; 
Though leeward whyles against my will, 

I took a bicker. 

I there wi' Something did forgather, 

That put me in an eerie swither; 

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, 

Clear-dangling, hang; 
A three-taed leister on the ither 

Lay, large and lang. 



28 BURNS' POEMS. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For hent a wame it had ava ! 

And then its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp, as sma' 

As cheeks o' branks ! 

" Gude-een," quo' I ; " Friend ! hae ye been niawin, 
When ither folk are busy sawin ?"* 
It seem'd to niak a kind o' staun, 

But naething spak ; 
At length, says I, " Friend! whare ye gaun ? 

Will ye gae back?" 

It spak right howe : — " My name is Death — 
But be no fley'd." — Quoth I, " Gude faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stop my breath ; 

But tent me, billie ; 
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, 

See, there's a gully !" 

" Gudeman," quo' he, " put up your whittle, 

I'm no design'd to trv its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wadna mind it, no that spittle ; 

Out-owre my beard." 

" Weel, weel," says I, " a bargain be't ; 
Come, gie's your hand, and say we're greet ; 
We'll ease our shanks and tak a seat, 

Come, gie's your news ; 
This whilef ye hae been mony a gate, 

At mouy a house." 

* This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785. 
t An epidemical fever was then raging in that country. 



burns' foems. 

" Ay, ay!" quo' he, and shook his head, 
" It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread, 

And choke the breath : 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

And sae maun Death. 

" Sax thousand years are near hand fled, 
Sin' I was to the butchering bred, 
And mony a scheme in vain's been laid 

To stap or scaur me ; 
Till ane Hornbroofts* taen up the trade, 

And faith he'll waur me. 

" Ye ken Jock HornbrooJt i' the Clachan, 
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buclian\ 

And ither chaps, 
The weans haud out their fingers, laughin, 

And pouk my hips. 

" See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 
They hae pierced monie a gallant heart : 
But Doctor IiornbooTi, wi' his art 

And cursed skill, 
Has made them baith nae worth a f— t, 

Danm'd haet they'll kill. 

" 'Twas but yestreen, na farther gane, 
I threw a noble dart at ane : 
Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain j 
But deil-ma-care, 



* This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally a brother 
of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula ; but, by intuition and 
inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Physician. 

t Buchan's Domestic Medicine. 



SO burns' poems. 

It just play'd dirl on the bane, 

But did nae niair. 

" Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortified the part, 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 

O' a kail-runt. 

" I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry, 
But yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
I might as weel hae tried a quarry 

O' hard whin-rock. 

" Ev'n them he canna get attended, 
Although their face he ne'er had kenn'd it, 
Tust in a kail-blade and send it ; 

As soon's he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it, 

At ance he telFst. 

" And then o' doctor's saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimentions, shapes, and mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, and bottles, 

He's sure to hae : 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A, B, C. 

" Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees ; 
True sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The farina o' beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis. what you please, 

He can content ye. 



burns' poems. I 

" Forbye some new uncommon weapons, 

Urinus spiritus o' capons : 

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 

Distill'd per se ; 
Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings, 

And monie mae." 

" Waes me for Johnny GecVs Hole* now," 
Quoth I, " if that the news be true ! 
His braw calf-ward, whare gowans grew 

Sae white and bonny, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew : 

They'll ruin Johnny .'" 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
And says, " Ye needna yoke the pleugh, 
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak ye na fear ; 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh, 

In twa-three year. 

" Where I kill'd ane a fair strae death, 
By loss o' bluid, or want o' breath, 
This night I'm free to tak my aith, 

That HornoooWs skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap and pill. 

" An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bred, 

Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak mair. 



* The grave-digger. 



32 burns' poems. 

" A countra Laird had ta'en the bats, 
Or some curmurring in his guts; 
His only son for Hornbook sets. 

And pays him well : 
The lad, for twa gude gimmer pets. 

Was Laird himsel'. 

" A Bonny lass, ye kenn'd her name, 
Some ill-brewn drink had hoved her wame ; 
She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook's care ; 
Horn sent her affto her lang hame, 

To hide it there. 

"That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel paid fo'r't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey 

Wi' his d-mn'd dirt : 

" But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't; 
I'll nail the self-conceited Scot 

As dead's a herrin : 
Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin !" 

But just as he began to tell, 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell 

Some wee short hour ayont the t?val, 

Which rais'd us baith : 
I took the way that pleas'd mysel, 

And sae did Heath. 



BURNS POEMS. 



THE BRIGS OF AYR : 



Inscribed to J. Ball ant yne, Esq. Ayr. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 

Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; 

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 

Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush ; 

The soaring lark, the perching redbreast shrill, 

Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray, wild whistling o'erthe hill; 

Shall he, nurs'd in the Peasant's lowly shed, 

To hardy Independence bravely bred, 

By early Poverty to hardship steel'd, 

And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field, 

Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 

The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes? 

Or labour hard the panegyric close, 

With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose? 

No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 

And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, 

He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 

Fame, honest Fame, his great, his dear reward. 

Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace, 

Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 

When Ballantyne befriends his humble name, 

And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, 

With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells, 

The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 

'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-worn crap ; 
Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming Winter's biting frosty breath ; 



34 burns' poems. 

The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
TJnnumber'd buds and flow'rs, delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles. 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : 
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field mates, bound by Nature's tie, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetie heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthiess deeds !) 
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs ; 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 
Except, perhaps, the robin's whistling glee, 
Proud o' the height o' some bit hauf-lang tree; 
The hoary morns precede the sunny days, 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, 
While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays. 
'Twas in that season, when a simple Bard, 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh o' Ayr, 
By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care, 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route, 
And down by Simpson's* wheel'd the left about; 
(Whether impell'd^by all -directing Fate, 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whether wrapt in meditation high, 
He wander'd out he knew not where nor why :) 
The drowsy Dmigeon-clockx had number'd two, 
And Wallace Tower t had sworn the fact was true : 
The tide-swoln frith, with sullen sounding roar, 
Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore 
All else was hush'd as Nature's closed ee ; 
The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree: 



i A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. 
The two steeples. 



burns' poems. 35 

The chilly frost beneath the silver beam, 

Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream — 

When lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, 
The clanging sugh of whistling winds he heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 
Swift as the Go-^l drives on the wheeling hare ; 
Ane on the Airfd Brig his airy shape uprears, 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers. 
Our warlike Rhymer instantly descry'd 
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside, 
(Tiiat Bards are second-sighted, is nae joke, 
And ken the lingo o' the sp'ritual folk: 
Fays, Spunkies,"Keipies, a' they can explain them, 
And ev'n the very cleils they brawly ken them.) 
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, 
The very wrinkles Gothic in his face; 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warsl'd lang, 
Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 
That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got ; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stauking round wi' anxious search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; 
It chanc'd his new come neighbour took his ee, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ; 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him this gude-e'en — 

AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na, frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank, 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faith, that day, I doubt, ye'll never see ; 



j The Goss-hawk, or Falcon, 
D 2 



36 BURNS' POEMS. 

There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle, 
Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor narrow foot-path o' a street, 
Where twa wheelbarrows tremble when they meet, 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk, o' stane and lime, 
Compare wi' bonny Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste wad tak the Ducat-stream,* 
Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim, 
Ere they wad grate their feelings wi' the view 
O' sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride! 

This mony a year I've stood the flood and tide; 

And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 

I'll be a Brig when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 

As yet ye little ken about the matter, 

But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 

When heavy, dark, continued a' -day rains, 

Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains; 

When from the hills, where springs the brawling Coil, 

Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, 

Or whare the Greenock winds his moorland course, 

Or haunted Garpal\ draws his feeble source, 

Arous'd by blust'ring winds and spotting thowes, 

In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rcwes ; 

While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, 

Sweeps dams, and mills, and brigs, a' to the gate ; 

* A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 

t The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places 

in the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, 

known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously 

to inhabit. 



burns' poems. 37 

And from Glenbxick\. down to the Rotton-ltey ',§ 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea ; 
Then down ye' 11 hurl — deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the jumlie joups up to the pouring skies. 
A lesson, sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That Architecture's noble art is lost. 

NEW BRIO. 

Fine Arcidtecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't ! 
The L — d bethankit that we've tint the gate o't ! 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 
Hanging, with threat'ning jut, like precipices ; 
O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves ; 
Windows and doors in nameless sculpture drest, 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
Forms, like some bedlam-statuary's dream, 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim; 
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, 
And still the second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air or sea ; 
Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 
Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast; 
Fit only for a doited monkish race, 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace ; 
Or cuifs of latter times, wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our gude Brugh denies protection, 
And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection ! 

ATJLD BRIG. 

O ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! 



$ The source of the river Ayr. 
£ A small landing-place above the large key. 



38 BUitXS' POEMS. 

Ye worthy Proveses and rnony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye : 
Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ; 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 
Ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gie your hurdles to the s miters; 
(And what wad now be strange) ye godly Writers! 
A' ye douce folk I've born aboon the broo, 
Were ye but here, what wad ye say or do ? 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And, agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base degenerate race ! 
]N T ae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory, 
In plain braid Scots baud forth a plain braid story ! 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, and douce, 
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house : 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
The herriment and ruin of the country; 
Men, three-parts made by tailors and by barbers, 
Wha waste your weel-ham'd gear on d — d new Brigs 
and Harbours I 

NEW BRIG. 

Now haud you there ! for faith ye've said enow, 

And muckle mair than ye can mak to through, 

As for your priesthood, I shall say but little, 

Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 

But, under favour o' your langer beard, 

Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd ; 

To liken them to your auld-warF squad, 

I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 

In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle 

To mouth ' a Citizen,' a term o' scandal : 

Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, 

In a' the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 

Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops an' raisins, 

Or gather'd liberal views in bonds and seisins. 



burns' poems. 39 

If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 

Had shor'd them wi' a glimmer o' his lamp, 

And would to Common-sense for ance betray'd them, 

Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 



What farther clishmaclaver might been said, 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, 
No man can tell; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear 'd in order bright. : 
Adown the glittering stream they featly dane'd ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd : 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The' infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet ; , 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M'JLauchlan,* thairm-inspiring Sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 
When through his dear Strathsjieys they bore with 

Highland rage, 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd, 
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd ! 
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. 

The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief, advane'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty, hand in hand with Spring ; 



* A well-known performer of Scottish music on the violin 



40 BURNS' POEMS. 

Then crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn, wreath'd with nodding corn ; 
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show, 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride, 
From where the Feed wild-woody coverts hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair ;\ 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : 
Last, white-rob' d Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling 
wrath. 



THE ORDINATION. 



For sense, they little owe to frugal Heaven — 
To please the Mob they hide the little given. 



Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge and claw, 

And pour your creeshie nations ; 
And ye wha leather rax and draw, 

Of a' denominations ; 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane and a', 

And there tak up your stations ; 
Then aff to Begbie's in a raw, 

And pour divine libatins 

For joy this day. 

t The poet alludes here to Mrs. Stewart of Stair.— Stair was 
then in her possession. She afterwards removed to Afton- 
Lodge, on the banks of the Afton, a stream which he after- 
wards celebrated in a song, entitled " Afton Water." 



BURNS' POEMS, 

Curst Common-Sense, that imp o' hell, 

Cam in wi' Maggy Lauder,* 
But Oliphant aft made her yell, 

And Russel sair misca'd her ; 
This day M'Kinlay taks the flail, 

And he's the boy will blaud her ! 
He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 

And set the bairns to daub her 
Wi' dirt this day. 

Mak haste and turn King David owre, 

And lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
O' double verse come gie us four, 

And skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 

IS T ae mair the knaves shall wrang her, 
For Heresy is in her power, 

And gloriously she'll whang her 
Wi' pith this day. 

Come, let a proper text be read, 

And touch it aff wi' vigour, 
How graceless Hami leugh at his dad, 

Which made Canaan a Niger ; 
Or Phineast drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah^ the scauldingjade, 

Was like a'bluidy tiger 

I' th' inn that day. 

There, try his mettle on the creed, 
And bind him down wi' caution, 



* Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the 
admission of the late Reverend and worthy Mr. L. to the 
Laigh Kirk. 

t Genesis, ix. Numbers, xxv. § Exodus, iv. 



EURNS' POEMS. 

That stipend is a carnal weed 
He taks but for the fashion ; 

And gie him o'er the flock to feed, 
And punish each transgression ; 

Especial rams that cross the breed, 
Gie them sufficient threshin, 

Spare them nae day. 

Now auld Kilmarnock cock thy tail, 

And toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owre the dale, 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
And runts o' grace, the pick and wale, 

No gien by way o' dainty, 

But ilka day. 

Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zion; 
And hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-drying : 
Come, screw the pegs wi' tuneful cheep, 

And o'er the thairms be trying ; 
Oh, rare ! to see our elbucksVheep, 

And a' like lamb-tails flyin 

Fu' fast this day ! 

Lang Patronage wi' rod o' airn, 

Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin, 
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our Patron, honest man ! Glencaim, 

He saw mischief was b re win ; 
And, like a godly elect bairn, 

He's waled us out a true ane, 

And sound this day, 



BURNS' TOEMS. 43 

Now, Robinson, harangue nae mair, 

But steek your gab for ever ; 
Or try the wicked' town o' Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

You may commence a Shaver; 
Or to the Netherton repair, 

An turn a carpet-weaver 

Afr-hand this day. 

Mutrie and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones ; 
And Hornie did the Laigli Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin baudrons : 
And aye he catch'd the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons ; 
But now his honour maun detach, 

Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons, 
Fast, fast this day. 

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes, 

She's swingein through the city, 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 

I vow its unco pretty : 
There Learning, wi' his Greekish face, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty ; 
And Common-Sense is gaun, she says, 

To mak to Jamie Seattle 

Her 'plaint this day. 

But there's Morality himsel' 

Embracing a' opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions ; 
See how she peels the skin and fell, 

As ane were peeling onions ! 
Now there — they're packed afF to hell, 

And banish'd our dominions, 

Henceforth this day. 



44 ETJRNS' POEMS. 

O happy day! rejoice, rejoice! 

Come bouse abput the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter: 
M'Kinlay, Russel, are the boys 

That heresy can torture : 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, 

And cow her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, 

And here's for a conclusion, 
To every New Light* mother's son, 

From this time forth, confusion : 
If mair they deave us wi' their din, 

Or Patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, 

We'll rin them aft in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



THE CALF. 

TO THE REV. MR. . 

On his Text, Malachi, chap. iv. ver. 2 — " And they shall 
go forth, and grow up like calves of the stall." 

Eight, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, 

Though heretics may laugh ; 
For instance, there's yoursel just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf. 



* Neiv Lights is a cant phrase, in the "West of Scotland, for 
those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor, of Norwich, has 
defended so strenuously. 



BUKNS' POEMS. 45 

And should some patron be so kind 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find 

Ye're still as great a Stirk ! 

But if tbe Lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be yor lot, 
Forbid it, every heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Slot! 

Tho' when some kind, connubial dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been, that you may wear 

A noble head o' horns ! 

And in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowt, 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank among the Nowte ! 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

" Here lies a famous Bullock !" 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 






O Prince ! Chief of many throned pow'rs, 
That led the embattled Seraphim to war. 

Milton. 



O Thou, whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie, 
Clos'd under hatches, 



h BURNS' POEMS. 

Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches ! 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
And let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

E'en to a deil, 
To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me, 

And hear us squeel ! 

Great is thy pow'r, and great thy fame, 
Ear kend and noted is thy name ; 
And tho' yon lowan heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
And faith, thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, rangin like a roarin lion, 
Eor prey, a' holes and corners tryin ; 
Whyles, on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin, 

Tirling the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my rev'rend Grannie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray, 
Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray, 

JNTod to the moon, 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Grannie summon 
To say her pray'rs, douce, honest woman, 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, 

Wi' eerie drone ! 
Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin, 

Wi' heavy groan ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Ae dreary, windy , winter, night, 

The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, 

Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright, 

Ayont the loch ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sugh. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 
Each bristled hair stood like a stake, 
When wi' an eldritch stoor, quaick — quaick- 

Amang the springs 
Away ye squatter 'd, like a drake, 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, and wither'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags, 
They skim the muirs and dizzy crags 

Wi' wicked speed, 
And in kirkyards renew their leagues 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence countra wives, wi' toil and pain, 
May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 

By witchin skill ; 
And dawtit, twal-pint Haickie's gaen 

As yell's the Bill. 

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse 

On young gudeman, fond, keen, and crouse ; 

When the best wark-loom i' the house, 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worth a louse, 

Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
And float the jinglin icy boord, 



48 BURNS' POEMS. 

Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord 
By your direction, 

And 'nighted travelers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 

And aft your moss-traversing Spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is ; 
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When Mason's mystic icord and qrip 
In storms and tempests raise ye up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest Brither ye wad whup 

Affstraighttohell! 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonny yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
And a' the soul of love they shar'd, 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird, 

In shady bow'r : 

Then you, ye auld sneck-drawin' dog ! 

Ye cam to Paradise incog., 

And play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa' !) 
And gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds and reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz 
'Mang better folk. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

And sklented on the man of Uz 
Your spitefu' joke ? 

And how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
And brak him out o' house and hall, 
While scabs and blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw, 
And lows'd his ill-tongued wicked scawl, 
Was warst ava'. 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares and fechtin fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael* did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

And now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, 
A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin, 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin 

To your black pit ; 
But, faith! he'll turn a corner, jinkin, 

And cheat you yet. 

But, fare ye weel, auld NicMe-ben ! 
O wad ye tak a thought and men' ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for vour sake ! 



* Vide Milton, Book, VI. 



50 burns' poems. 



THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF 
POOR MAILIE. 

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 

An unco mornfu' Tale. 

As Mailie and her lambs, tb.egitb.er, 
Were ae day nibbling on tbe tether, 
Upon the cloot she coost a hitch, 
And owre she war sled in the ditch -, 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc* he came doytin by. 

Wi' glowrin een, and lifted han's, 
Poor Hug hoc like a statue stan's; 
He saw her days were near-hand endit, 
By, waes my heart ! he cou'dna mend it J 
He gaped wide, but naething spak ! 
At length poor Mailie silence brak : 

" O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case ! 
My dying wmxls attentive hear, 
And bear them to my Master dear : 

11 Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O ! bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o'hemp or hair, 
But ca' them out to park or hill, 
And let them wander at their will; 
So may his flock increase, and grow 
To scores o' lambs and packs o' woo. 

* A neighbour herd-callan. 



burns' poems. 

Tell him, he was a Master kin', 
And aye was gude to me and mine ; 
And now my dying charge I gie him, 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

" O, bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, and tods, and butchers' knives! 
But gie them gude cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel; 
And tent them duly, e'en and morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay and rips o' corn. 

" And may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither vile wanrestfu'pe^.' 
To slink thro' slaps, and reave and steal 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears, 
For mony a year come thro' the sheers : 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread, 
And bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

" My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir, 
O, bid him breed him up wi' care ! 
And if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some havins in his breast; 
And. warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame ; 
And no to rin and wear his cloots, 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

" And neist, my yotvie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ! 
O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop! 
But aye keep mind to moop and mell 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel. 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 
I leave my blessin wi' you baith ; 
And when you think upon your mither, 
Mind to be kind to ane anither, 
e2 



»2 BURNS' poems. 

" Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
And bid him burn this cursed tether; 
And for thy pains thou's get my blether." 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
And clos'd her een amang the dead ! 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane of his woes ; 

Poor Maine's dead ! 

It's no the loss o' warld's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed j 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear, 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 

She ran wi' speed ; 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
And could behave hersel wi' mense 5 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie's dead. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
Her living image, in her yowe, 
Conies bleating to him, owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread; 
And down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' nmirland tips, 

Wi' tawted ket, and hairy hips; 

For her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae yont the Tweed I 
A ~hom&&r fleesli ne'er eross'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile wanchancie thing — a rape ! 
It maks gude fellows girn and gape 

Wi' chokin dread; 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 

For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonny Boon ! 

And wha on Ayr your chanters tune ! 

Come, join the melancholious croon 

O' Robin's reed! 
His heart will never get aboon 

His Mailie dead t 



burns' poems. 
TO JAMES SMITH. 

MATTGHLINE. 



Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! 

Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society ! 

I owe thee much. Blair, 



Dear Smith, the sleest, pawkie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
You surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts ; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun and moon, 
And every star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon, 

Just gaun to see you, 
And every ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. 

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak amends for scrimpit stature, 
She's turn'd youaff, a human creature 

On hex first plan, 
And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature, 

She's wrote — the Man. 

Just now I've ta'en the fit of rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
Hae ye a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin ? 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash ; 

Some rhyme (vain thought !•) for needfu' cash ; 

Some rhyme to court the countra clash, 

And raise a din ; 
For me, an aim I never fash — 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot, 

Has fated me the russet coat, 

And damn'd my fortune to the groat ; 

But, in requit, 
Has blest me wi' a random shot 

O' countra wit. 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
To try my fate in gude black prent ; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries, " Hoolie ! 
I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye'll shaw your folly. 

" There's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters, 

Their unknown pages.'' 

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang, 
And teach the lanely heights and howes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, wi' tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 



56 BURNS' POEMS. 

Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone ! 

But why o' Death begin a tale ? 

Just now we're living sound and hale ; 

Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave Care o'er side ? 
And large, before Enjoyment's gale, 

Let's tak the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand, 
Is a' enchanted fairy-land, 
Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right, 
Make hours like minutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic wand then let us wield : 
For, ance that five-and-forty's speel'd, 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkled face, 
Comes hoastin, hirplin owre the field, 

Wi' creepin pace. 

When anee life's day draws near the gloamin, 
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin ; 
And fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin, 

And social noise; 
And fareweel dear deluding woman, 

The joy o' joys ! 

O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning I 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning^ 
We frisk away. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Like school-boys at th' expected warning, 
To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near 

Amang the leaves ; 
And tho' the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spat, 
For which they never toil'd nor swat ; 
They drink the sweet, and eat the fat, 

But care or pain; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

Wi' high disdain. 

Wi' steady aim, some Fortune chase ; 
Keen Hope does every sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place, 

They close the day. 

And ithers, like your humble servan', 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin ; 
To right or left, eternal swervin, 

They zigzag on ; 
Till curst wi' age, obscure and starvin, 

They aften groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil and strainin ! — 
But truce wi' peevish, poor complaining- 
Is Fortune's fickle Luna wanin ? 

Ee'en let her gang! 
Beneath what light she has remainin 

Let's sing our sang. 



y6 BURNS' POEMS. 

My pen I here fling to the door, 

And kneel, " Ye pow'rs! and warm implore, 

Though I should wander terra o'er, 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Aye rowth o' rhymes. 

" Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, 

And maids of honour : 
And yill and whisky gie to cairds 

Until they sconner. 

" A title, Dempster merits it; 

A garter gie to Willie Pitt ; 

Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent. 
But gie me real, sterling wit, 

And I'm content. 

" While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down owre my scanty meal, 
Be't ivater-brose, or muslin-kail, 

WV cheerfu' face, 
As lang's the Muses dinna fail 

To say the grace." 

An anxious ee I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may : 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, 

I rhyme away. 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and oool, 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool ! 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 

Your lives a dyke ! 

]\ T ae harebrain'd sentimental traces 
In your unletter'd nameless faces ! 
In arioso trills and graces, 

Ye never stray, 
But, gravlssimo, solemn basses, 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise, 

Nae ferly tho' ye do despise * 

The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 

The rattlin squad ; 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

Ye ken the road. — 

Whilst I — but I shall haud me there — 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang, 
Content, with you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



60 BURNS' POEMS. 

A DREAM. 



Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason, 
But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted treason. 



[On reading in the public papers, the LAUREATE'S ODE, 
with the other PARADE of June 4, 1786, the Author was 
no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself trans- 
ported to the Birth-day Levee ; and in his dreaming fancy, 
made the following Address.] 

Gude-morning to your Majesty ! 

May Heav'n augment your blisses, 
On ev'ry new birth-day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is, 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang the birth-day dresses 
Sae fine this day. 

I see ye're complimented tbrang, 

By mony a lord and lady ! 
1 God save the King !' 's a cuckoo sang 
That's unco easy said aye ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But aye unerring steady, 
On sic a day. 

For me ! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n tliere I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor ; 



burns' poems. 

Sae, nae reflection on your grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's mony waur been o' the race, 

And aiblins ane been better 

Than you this day. 

Tis very true my sov'reign king, 

My skill may weel be doubted ; 
But facts are chiels that winna ding, 

And downa be disputed ; 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right left and clouted, 
And now the third part o' the string, 

And less, will gang about it 
Than did ae day. 

Far be't frae me that I aspire, 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, 

Ye've trusted 'ministration 
To chaps, wha' in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill their station 

Than courts yon day. 

And now ye've given auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaster ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank God ! my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith ! I fear that, wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

P the craft some day. 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 
When taxes he enlarges, 



62 burns' poems. 

(And Will's a true gude fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges), 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

And lessen a' your charges ; 
But, G-d-sake ! "let nae saving fit 

Abridge your bonny barges 

And boats this day. 

Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection : 
And may ye rax Corruption's neck, 

And gie her for dissection. 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty and subjection 

This great birth-day. 

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
"Will ye accept a compliment 

A s"imple poet gies ye ? 
Tliae bonny bairntime, Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye ? 
In bliss, till Fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 

For you, young potentate of Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down Pleasure's stream, wl' swelling sails, 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

And curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, 
Bv night or day. 



BURNS' POEMS. 63 

Yet aft a ragged coicte's been known 

To male a noble aiver ; 
Sae ye may doucely fill a throne, 

For a' their clishmaclaver : 
There, him* at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver; 
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir Jo7in,\ 

He was an unco shaver 

For mony a day. 

For you, right revrend Osnaburg, 

Nane sets the laicn-sleeve sweeter, 
Although a ribband at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer ; 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! and get a wife to hug, 

Or, troth ! ye'll stain the mitre 
Some luckless day. 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
A glorious galley, x stem and stern, 

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple-airn, 

And, large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bonny blossoms a' 
Ye royal lasses dainty, 

* King Henry V. 
t Sir John Falstaff. See Shakspeare's Henry IV. 
t Alluding to the newspaper-account of a certain Royal 
Sailor's amour. 



64 burns' poems. 

Heav'n inak you gude as weel as braw, 
And gie you lads a-plenty ! 

But sneer na British boys awa 
For kings are unco scant aye : 

And German gentles are but snia', 
They're better just than want aye. 
On ony day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now 

Ye're unco muckle dautit ; 
But ere the course of life be through, 

It may be bitter sautit ; 
And I hae seen their coggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautit 

Fu' clean that day. 



THE VISION. 

DTTAN FIRST.* 

The sun had clos'd the winter day, 
The curlers quat their roaring play, 
And hunger'd m*aukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's weary flingin-tree 
The lee-lang day had. tired me ; 



* Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a 
digressive poem. See his Cath-ioda, vol. ii. of M'Pherson's 
translation. 



BUItNS' POEMS. 

And wlian tlie day had clos'd his ee, 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle cheek 

I sat, and ee''d the spewin reek, 

That filPd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin; 
And heard the restless rations sqeak 

About the riggbx 

A' in this motty, misty clime, 

I backward mus'd on wasted time, 

How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

And done nae thing, 
But stringing blethers up in rhyme, 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to gude advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market, 
Or struttit in a bank, and clarkit 

My cash-account ; 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt'ring, Blockhead ! coof ! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or some rash aith, 
That I, henceforth, wad be rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath — 

When, click! the string the sneck did draw; 
And jee! the door gaed to the wa'; 
And by my ingle-lowe I saw, 

New bleezing bright, 



16 BURNS' POEMS. 

A tight, outlandish hizzle, braw, 
Come full in sight. 

Ye needna doubt, I held my whisht ; 
The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht : 
I glow'rd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted, gracefu,' round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token ; 
And come to stop those reckless vows 

Wad soon been broken. 

A 'harebrain'd, sentimental trace' 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen wi' honour. 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And sic a leg ! my bonny Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else cam near it. 

Her mantle large, o' greenish hue, 

My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw 

A lustre grand, 
And seem'd, to my astonish'd view, 

A well-known land. 



BURNS POEMS. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost, 
There, mountains to the skies were tost ; 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, 

Wi' surging; foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 

The lordly dome. 

Here Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods, 
There, well-fed Iricine stately thuds : 
Auld hermit Ayr staw through his woods, . 

On to the shore ; 
And mony a lesser torrent scuds, 

Wi' seemin roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 

An ancient borough rear'd her head ; 

Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, 

And polish'd grace. 

By staely tow'r, or palace fair, 

Or ruins pendent in the air, 

Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, 

Wi' feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel, 

To see a race* heroic wheel, 

And brandish round the deep-dyed steel 

In sturdy blows : 
While back recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their southron foes. 



* The Wallaces, 



fS BURNS' TOEZVIS. 

His Country's Saviour,* mark him well; 
Bold Richardton , s\ heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sark,\ who glorious fell, 

In high command ; 
And He, whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a scepter'd Pictish\\ shade 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race, pourtray'd 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 

They strode along. 

Through many a wild romantic grove,§ 
Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love), 

In musing mood, 
An aged judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe^l 
The learned sire and son I saw. 



* William Wallace. 

+ Adam Wallace of Richardton, cousin to the immortal 
preserver f Scottish independence. 

J Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in command 
under Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the 
hanks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was 
principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour 
of the gallant Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after 
the action. 

|| Coilus, King of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle 
is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the 
family seat of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield. where his 
burial-place is still shewn. 

§ Barskimming, the seat of the late Lord Justice Clerk. . 

^ Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor, and present Professor 
Stewart. 



burns' foems. 

To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore : 

This, all its source and end to draw, 
That, to adore. 

Brydone's brave ward* I well could spy, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 

To hand him en, 
Where many a patriot-name on high, 

And hero shone. 

DUAS SECOND. 

With musing deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heav'nly-seemiugy'ai?'; 
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

" All hail ! my own inspired Bard, 
In me thy nat;ve Muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus poorly low ! 
I come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 

" Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Their labours ply. 



* Colonel Fullai'ton. 



70 EURNS' POEMS. 

" They Scotia's race among them share, 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart ; 
Some teach the bard, a darling care, 

The tuneful art. 

" 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar, 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest patriot-lore, 

And grace the hand. 

" And when the bard, or hoary sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age, 
They bind the wild poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

" Hence Fvllarton, the brave and young; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspiring tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Seattle sung 

His ' Minstrel lays ;' 
Or tore, with nobler ardour stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 

"To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind, 
The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, 

The Artisan ; 
All chuse, as various they're inclin'd, 

The various man. 

" When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threat' ning storm some strongly rein : 



burns' poems. 

Some teach to meliorate the plain 
With tillage-skill ; 

And some instruct the shepherd-train, 
Blythe o'er the hill. 

a Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some sooth the lab'rer's weary toil 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

" Some, bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic Bard I 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 

" Of these am I—Coila my name; 

And this district as mine I claim, 

Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling pow'r ; 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame, 

Thy natal hour. 

" With future hope, I oft would gaze, 
Fond, on thy little early ways, 
Thy rudely caroll'd chiming phrase, 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir'd at the simple artless lays 

Of other times. 

" I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove through the sky, 



72 burns' poems. 

I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

" Or when the deep green-mantled earth 
Warm cherish d every flow'ret's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth 

With boundless love. 

" When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reapers' rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their evening joys, 

And lonely stalk/ 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

" When youthful Love, warm-blushing, strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To sooth thy flame. 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send'thee pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by fancy's meteor ray, 

By passion driven ! 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven. 

" I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
Till -now, owre all my wide domains, 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of CoilcCs plains, 

Become thy friends. 



burns' poems. 73 

"Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thomson's landscape-glow, 
Or wake the bosom-melting 1 throe 

With Shenstone's art ; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 

" Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, 

The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 

Though large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade, 
Yet green the jaicy hawthorn grows, 

Adown the glade. 

" Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; 
And trust me, not Potosi's mine, 

Nor king's regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 

A rustic Sard. 

" To give my counsels all in one, 
Thy tuneful' flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the dignity of Man 

With soul erect! 
And trust, the Universal Plan 

Will all protect. 

" And wear thou this" — she solemn said, 
And bound the Holly round my head ; 
The polish' d leaves and berries red 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



burns' poems. 



ADDRESS 

TO THE UNCO GUDE, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 



My son, these maxims make a rule, 
And lump them aye thegither; 

The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 
The Rigid Wise anither : 

The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 
May hae some piles o' caff in ; 

Sae ne'er a fellow-creature slight 
For random fits o' damn.. 

Solomon. — Eccles, vii. 16. 



O ye wha are sae gade yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebour s fauts and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 

Supply'd wi' store o' water, 
The heapit happer's ebbing still, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaiket Folly's portals ; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Wad here propone defences, 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their failings, and mischances. 

Ye see your state wi' theirs eompar'd, 

And shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What makes the mighty differ ? 



burns' poems. 75 

Discount what scant occasion gave, 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (what's aft naair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a whallop, 
What ragins must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal gallop ; 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It maks an unco lee-way. 

See Social Life and Glee sit down, 

A' joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transniugrify'd, they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking ; 
O wad they stay to calculate 

Tli' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

Damnation of expenses ! 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Tied up in godly laces, 
Before you gie poor frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear-lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination 

But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman, 
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang ; 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving ichy they do it ; 



76 BURNS' POEMS. 

And just as lamely can ye mark, 
How far perhaps they rue it. 

Wha made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each cord, its various tone, 

Each spring, its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But ken na what's resisiet. 



TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. 



An honest man's the noblest work of God. — Voye. 



Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil ? 
Or great M i Kinlay\ thrawn his heel? 
Or RobinsonX again grown weel, 

To preach and read ? 
"Na, waur than a'!" cries ilka chiel, 

" Tarn Samson's dead." 

Kilmarnock lang may grunt and grane, 
And sigh, and sab, and greet her lane, 



* When this worthy old sportsman went out last muir-fowl 
season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, " the last 
of his fields," and expressed an ardent wish to die and be 
buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his 
elegy and epitaph. 

t A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. 
Vide the " Ordination," stanza 2. 

% Another Preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who 
was at that time ailing. For him see also the " Ordination," 
stanza 9. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

And deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean, 
In mourning weed ; 

To death she's dearly paid the kane, 
Tarn Samson's dead. 

The brethren o' the mystic level 
May hing their head in wofu' bevel, 
While by'their nose the tears will revel 

Like ony bead ; 
Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

When Winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the loughs the curlers flock, 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock ? 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

He was the king o' a' the core, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

Jn time o' need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog-score, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately saumont sail, 
And trouts bedrop'd wi' crimson hail, 
And eels, weel kenn'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed, 
Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail 

Tarn Samson's dead! 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw ; 
Ye maukins, cock your fads fu' braw, 
Withouten dread ; 



78 burns' poems. 

Your mortal fae is now awa', 

Tarn Samson's dead. 

That wofu' morn be ever mourn'd 
Saw him in shooting-graith adorn'd, 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 
In vain the burns come down like waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Now every auld wife, greeting, clatters, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Owre monie a wearie hag he limpit, 
And aye the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward Death behint him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'd heed; 
" Lord, five !" he cried, and owre did stagger ; 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn' d a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman-youth bemoan'd a father ; 
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote in rhyming blether, 

Tarn Samson 1 s dead ! 



burns' poems. 79 

There low he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mouldering breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest 

To hatch and breed ; 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest! 

Tarn Samson's dead! 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

O' pouther and lead; 
Till Echo answers frae her cave, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me ; 
He had twa fauts, or may be three, 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social honest man want we — 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 



THE EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, 
Ye canting zealots spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend or ye win near Mm. 

PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly 

Through a' the streets and neuks o' Killie,* 

Tell every social, honest billie 

To cease his grievin ; 
For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 

Tam Samson's livin ! 



burns' poems. 



HALLOWEEN.* 

The following Poem will, by many readers, be well enough 
understood ; but, for the sake of those who are unacquainted 
with the manners and traditions of the country where the 
scene is cast, Notes are added, to give some account of the 
principal Charms and Spells of that night, so big with 
Prophecy to the Peasantry in the West of Scotland. The 
passion of prying into futurity makes a striking part of the 
history of Human Nature in its rude state, in all ages and 
nations ; and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic 
mind, if any such should honour the author with a perusal, 
to see the remains of it among the more unenlightened in 
our own. 



Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 

Goldsmith. 



Upon that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Doiun<ms] dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance : 
Or for Colean the route is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams; 
There, up the Cove,% to stray and rove 

Amang the rocks and streams, 
To sport that night. 

* Is thought to be a nig-ht when witches, devils, and other 
mischief-making beings are all abroad on their baneful mid- 
night errands ; particularly those aerial people, the fairies, are 
said, on that night, to hold a grand anniversary. 

t Certain little romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neigh- 
bourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Casillis. 

j A noted cavern near Colean-house, called The Coye of 
Colean, which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed in 
eountry story for being a favourite haunt of fairies. 



B-URNS' POEMS. 81 

Amang the bonny winding banks, 

Where Doon rins wimpiin clear, 
Where Brttce* ance rul'd the martial ranks, 

And shook the Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly countra folks 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, and pou their stocks, 

And haud their Halloween, 

Fu' blithe that night. 

The lasses feat, and cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
Their faces blithe, fu' sweetly ky the, 

Hearts leal, and warm, and kin : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Well knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, and some wi' gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin, 

Whyles fast at night. 

Then first and foremost, thro' the kail, 
Their stocks t maun a' be sought ance ; 

They steek their een, and graip and wail 
For muckle anes, and straught anes. 

* The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, 
the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick. 

t The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each a stock, 
or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, .with eyes 
shut, and pull the first they meet with ; its being big or little, 
straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the 
object of all their spells — the husband or wife. If any yird, 
or earth, stick to the root, that is toclier or fortune ; and 
the taste of the custoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is 
indicative of the natural temper and disposision. Lastly, 
the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appellation, 
the runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door ; 
and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings 
into the house, are according to the priority of placing the 
runts, the names in question. 



82 burns' poems. 

Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift. 

And wander'd thro' the bmo-kail, 
And poa't, for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar and cry a' throu'ther; 
The vera wee things, todlin, rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; 
And gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care they've plac'd them 
To lie that night. 

The lasses staw frae 'mang them a', 

To pou their stalks o' corn j* 
But Rab slips out, and jinks about 

Behind the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard and fast ; 

Loud skirled a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-picMe maist was lost, 

When kiutlin i' the fause-houset 
W' him that night. 

The auld gudewife's weel-hordet nits, $ 
Are round and round divided, 

* They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, at three 
several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the 
top-jncitle, that is the grain at the top of the stalk, the party 
in question will come to the marriage-bed any thing but a 
maid. 

t When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green 
or -wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, &c. makes 
a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side 
which is most exposed to the wind ; this he calls a fause- 
liouse. 

% Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. They name the 
lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the 



burns' poems. 83 

And monie lads' and lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 

And burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, 

And jump out-owre the chimlie 

Fu' high that night. 

Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie ee ; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, and this is me, 

She says in to hersel : 
He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him, 

As they wad never mair part ; 
'Till fuff ! he started up the lum, 

And Jean had e'en a sair heart, 

To see't that night. 

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie; 
And Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

To be compar'd to Willie ; 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 

And her ain fit it brunt it ; 
While Willie lap, and swoor bjjing, 

'Twas just the way he wanted 

To" be that night. 

Nell had the fause-house in her min', 

She pits herself and Rob in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 

Till white in ase they're sob'bin : 
Nells heart was dancing at the view ; 

She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 



fire ; and accordingly as they burn quietly together, or start 
from heside one another, the course arid issue of the court- 
ship will be. 

G 2 



84 burns' poems. 

Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bony mou, 
Fu' cozie in the neuk fort, 

Unseen that night. 

But Merran sat behint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel : 
She thro' the yard the nearest taks, 

And to the kiln she goes then, 
And darklins graipit for the bauks, 

And in the blue-clue* throws them, 

Right fear't that night. 

And ay she win't, and ay she swat ; 

I wat she made naejaukin : 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L — d ! but she was quakin ! 
But whether 'twas the De'il himsel, 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She didna wait on talkin 

To spier that night. 

Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, 

u Will ye go wi' me, Grannie? 
I'll eat the ajtyle] at the glass 

I gat frae uncle Johnnie : 

* Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly 
observe these directions : Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, 
and, darkling, throw in the pot a clue of blue yarn ; wind 
it in a new clew off the old one ; and, towards the latter end, 
something will hold the thread ; demand, Wha 7iauds 1 i. e. 
who holds ? an answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, 
by naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse. 

+ Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass ; eat an 
apple before it ; and some traditions say, you should comb 



BURNS' POEMS. 85 

She fuff'd her pipe w' sic a hint, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin, 
She notic'd na, an aizle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night. 

" Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! 

How dare you try sic sportin, 
As seek the foul thief ony place, 

For him to spae your fortune : 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For monie a ane has gotten a fright, 

An' liv'd and died deleeret 

On sic a night. 

" Ae hairst afore the Sherra-Moor, 

I mind't as weei's yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I was na past fyfteen : 
The simmer had been cauld and wat, 

And stuff was unco green ; 
And ay a rantin kirn we gat, 

And just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 

" Our stibble-rig; was Rab M'Graen, 

A clever sturdy fallow; 
He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That liv'd in Achmacalla ; 
He gat hemp-seed,* I mind it weel, 

And he made unco light o't ; 

your hair all the time; the face of your conjugal com- 
panion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over 
your shoulder. 

* Steal out, unperceived, and sow an handful of hemp- 
seed, harrowing it with any thing you can conveniently 



10 BURNS' POEMS. 

But monie a day was by himsel, 
He was sae sairly frighted 

That yera night." 

Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 

And he swoor by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck, 

For it was a' but nonsense : 
The auld gudeman raught down the pock, 

And out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bade him slip frae 'mang the folk, 

Some time when nae ane see'd him, 
And try't that night. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something sturtin ; 
The graip he for a harrow taks, 

And haurls at his curpin : 
And ev'rj now and then, he says, 

" Hemp-seed, I saw thee, 
And her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me and draw thee, 

As fast this night." 

He whistled up Lord Lennox' march, 

To keep bis courage cheery; 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

He was sae fley'd and eerie : 



draw after you. Repeat, now and then, " Hemp-seed, I 
saw thee, hemp-seed, I saw thee ; and him (or her) that is 
to be my true-love, come after me and pou thee." Look 
over your left shoulder, and you will see the person invoked, 
in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, 
" Come after me and shaw thee," that is, show thyself; in 
which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, 
and say, " Come after me, and harrow thee." 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Till presently he hears a squeak, 
And then a grane an' gruntle : 

He by his shouther gae a keek, 
And tumbled wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

He roar'd a horrid inurder-shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
And young and auld cam rinnin out, 

To hear the sad narration; 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or Crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' : 

And wha was it but grumphie 

Asteer that night. 

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gane ; 

To icin three icechts o' naething ;'* 
But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She put but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits, 

And twa red-cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn she sets, 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 

That Tery night. 



* This charm must likewise he performed, unperceived and 
alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, taking 
them off the hinges if possible, for there is danger that the 
being about to appear may shut the doors, and do you some 
mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the 
corn, which, in our country dialect, we call a wecht, and go 
through all the attitudes of letting down corn against the 
wind. Repeat it three times ; and the third time an appa- 
rition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door and 
out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the 
appearance or retinue marking the employment or station 
in life. 



*8 BURNS' poems. 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, 

An' owre the threshold ventures : 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca', 

Syne bauldly in she enters : 
A ratton rattled up the wa', 

And she cried, L — d preserve her ! 
And ran thro' midden-hole and a', 

An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, 

Fu' fast that night. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice; 

They hecht him some fine braw ane ! 
It chanc'd the stack hefaddom'd thrice* 

Was timmer propt for thrawin : 
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak, 

For some black gronsome carlin ; 
And loot a winze, and drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blypes cam haurlin 

AfFs nieves that night, 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As cantie as a kittlin ; 
But, och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She gat a fearfu' settlin ! 
She thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 

And owre the hill gaed scrievin, 
Whare three lairds 1 lands met at a bumi,f 

To dip her left sark sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 



* Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a bear-stack, 
and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the 
last time you will catch in your arms the appearance of your 
future conjugal yoke-fellow. 

t You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a 
south-running- spring, or rivulet, where " three lairds' 
lands meet," and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in 
sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. 



burns' poems. 

Whyles owre the linn the burnie plays 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it stays, 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter' d to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 



Amang the brachens, on the brae, 

Between her and the moon, 
The deil, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up and gae a croon : 
Poor Leezie's heart raaist lap the hool ; 

Near lav'rock-height she jumpit; 
But miss'd a fit, and in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 



In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 
The higgles three* are ranged, 

And every time great care is ta'en 
To see them duly changed ! 



Lie awake ; and, some time near midnight, an apparition, 
having the exact figure of the grand object in question, 
will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it. 
* Take three dishes; put clean water in one, foul water in 
another, and leave the third empty. Blindfold a person 
and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged: he 
{or she) dips the left hand : if by chance in the clean water, 
the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matri- 
mony a maid ; if in the foul, a widow ; if in the empty dish, 
it foretels, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is 
repeated three times ; and every time the arrangement of the 
dishes is altered. 



»U burns' poems. 

Auld Uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin Mar's year did desire, 
Because he gat the tooin dish thrice, 

He heav'd them on the fire, 

In wrath that night. 

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they didna weary ; 
And unco tales, and funny jokes, 

Their sports were cheap and cheery . 
Till butterhl so'ns,* wi' fragrant lunt, 

Sets a' their gabs a-steerin ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

They parted aff careerin 

Fu' blythe that night. 



THE 

AULD FARMER'S 

NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD 
MARE MAGGIE, 

On giving her the accustomed Ripp of Corn to hansel in the 
New- Year. 

A Gude New- Year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie ; 
Tho' thou's howe-backit now, and knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 
Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy, 
And thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 



* Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always 
the Halloween supper. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonny gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee 

Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was V the foremost rank, 
A filly buirdly, steeve, and swank, 
And set weerdown a shapely shank 

As e'er tread yird ; 
And could hae flown out-owre a stank 

Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine-and- twenty year, 
Sin' thou was my guid father's meere, 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

And fifty mark : 
Though it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 

And thou was stark. 

Yv 7 ben first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, and funny, 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, and cannie, 

And unco sonsie. 

That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride : 
And sweet and gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair. 

Tho' cow ye dow but hoyte and hobble, 
And wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day ye was a jinker noble, 

For heels and win'. 



»-i BU11XS' POEM.S. 

And ran them till they a' did wauble 
Far, far behin'. 

When thou and I were young and skeigh, 

And stable-meals at fairs were dreigb, 

How thou wad prance, and snore, and skreigh, 

And tak the road, 
Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 

And ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, and I was mellow, 
We took the road ay like a swallow : 
At brooses thou had ne'er a fallow, 

For pith and speed ; 
But every tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't hunter cattle, 
Might aiblins waurt thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

And gar't them whaizle ; 
IS T ae whip nor spur, but just a whattle 

O' saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble fittie-latti 

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ; 
-.Aft thee and I, in aught hours gaun, 

On ginle 3Iareh weather, 
Has turn'd sax rood beside our baa'. 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, and fech't, and fliskit, 
But thy au'd tail tliou wad hae vrhiskit, 
And spread abreed thy weel-fill'd hrisket, 

WT pith and power. 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, 

An' slypet owre. 



BURNS POEMS. 

When frosts lay lang, and snaws were deep. 
And threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap, 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 

The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; 

Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit, 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' ; 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
Forbye sax inae, I've seil't awa, 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund and twa, 

The very warst. 

Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
And wi' the weary warl' fought! 
And mony an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld trusty servan', 
That now, perhaps, thou's less deservin, 
And thy auld days may end in starvin, 

For my last_/bi«. 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither • 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 



4 BUKNS' Id. 

WV tentie care I'll flit, thy tether 

To some hain'd ri<_r, 

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 
WV Hiia' fatigue. 



TO A MOUSE, 

ON TURNING HER UP XX HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, 

November, 178-3. 

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie! 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa Bae hastie, 

WV bickering brattle ! 

I wad belaith to rin an' chase "thee, 

Wi 1 murd'rin pattle! 

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion, 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

"Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, 

An' felloic-niortut. 

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve : 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
A daimeii-ickcr in a throve 

'S a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave. 

And never miss't. 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! 
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 
\ii' naething now to bis a aew uu 

o- foggage green! 



burns' poems. 05 

An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 
Baith suell and keen ! 

Tbou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 
An' weary winter coming fast, 
An' cozie bere, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out through thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibbble, ' 
Has cost thee inony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

And cranreuch cauld! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In ^pcoymg f or esig7it may be vain : 
The best-laid schemes o' mice and men 

Gang aft a-gley, 
And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promis'djoy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' met 
The present only toucheth thee; 
But, och ! I backward cast my ee, 

On prospects drear ! 
And forward, though I canna see. 

I guess zxl fear. 



JBUKXS' POEMS. 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, 
Your loop'd and window 'd raggedness, defend you 
From seasons such as these ? — 

Shakspeare. 



When biting Borea*, fell and doure, 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 
When Phabm gies a short-liv'd glow'r 

Far sou*;h the lift — 
Dirn-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked, 

Wild-eddying swirl, 
Or thro' the mining outlet bock d, 
Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning the doors and winnocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

O' winter war, 
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle 

Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing! 
That, in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing. 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy cluttering wing, 

And close thy ee ? 



BURNS POEMS. 9' 

Ev'n you on rnurd'ring errands toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd, 
The biood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cot spoil'd, 

My heart forgets, 
While pitiless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 

Dark muffl'd, view'd the dreary plain, 

Still crowding tlioughts, a pensive train, 
Rose in my soul, 

When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow, solemn, stole 

" Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust ! 
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 

More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 

Vengeful malice, unrepenting, 
Than heav'n-illurnin'd Man on brother Man bestows. 

See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 

Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 
Woe, want, and murder, o'er a land ! 

Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, 

Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pamper'd Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, 

The parasite empoisoning her ear, 

With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
Looks o'er proud Property extended wide, 

And eyes the simple, rustic Hind, 
Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 

A creature of another kind, 

Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile below. 

Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 

With lordly Honour's lofty brow, 
The pow'rs you proudly own? 



98 BURNS' POEMS. 

Is there, beneath Lore's noble name, 

Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 
To bless himself alone? 

Mark maiden-innocence a prey 
To love-pretending snares ; 

This boasted honour turns away, 

Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, 
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing; m 

Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest, 

She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast! 
Oh ye ! who, sunk on beds of down. 

Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 

Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
Whom friends and fortune quite die 
Ill-satisfy 'd keen Nature's clam'rons call, 

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 

Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! 

Think on the dungeon's grim confine", 

Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine! 

( uilt, erring man, relenting view ! 

But shall thy regal rage pursue 

The wretch already crushed low 

By cruel Fortune 'sundeserved blow? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress : 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss !'' 

I heard nae maer, for Chan 

Shook off the pouthery snaw. 
And hail'd the morning wi' a cheer, 

A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impress'd my mind — 

Through all His works abroad, 
The heart benevolent and kind 

The mo9t resembles God. 



burns' poems. 99 

EPISTLE TO DAVIE,* 

A BROTHER POET. 

January „ 

While winds frae aff Hen-Lomond Maw, 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o : rhyme, 

In hamely westlin jingle. 
"While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the ehimla-lug, 
I grudge a wee the sreat folk's gift, 
That live sae bien an' snug : 
I tent less, and want less, 

Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker 
To see their cursed pride. 

It's hardly in a body's power 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whyles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

And ken na how to wair't ; 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Though we hae little gear, 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
" Mair spier na, nor fear na,"t 
Auld Age ne'er mind a leg ; 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only for to beg. 

* David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, the author of 
a Yolume of Poems in the Scottish dialect. 

h2 



an burns? poj 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en 

When bancs are crazed, and blade is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great di&ti 
Yet then content could mak us blest; 
Ev'n then sometimes, we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
Tbe honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or goile, 
However Fortune kick the ba', 
Has ay some cause to smile ; 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' j 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa'. 

"What tho' like commoners of air, 
"We wander out, we know not where, 

But either house or hall '. 
Yet Nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
Wi' honest joy our hearts will bound, 
To see the coming year: 
On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit an' sowth a tune; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, 
And siug't when we hae done. 

It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lou'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in makin mnckle mair: 
It's no in books, its DO in lair, 

To make us truly blast : 
If Happiness hae not her seat, 

And centre in the breast, 



BURNS' POEMS. 101 



We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest : 
]\ T ae treasures, nor pleasures, 

Could make us happy lang ; 
The heart ay's the part ay 
That makes us right or wrang. 



Think ye, that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge and drive through wet and dry, 

Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ? 

Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 

God's creatures they oppress ! 

Or else, neglected a' that's gude, 

They riot in excess ! 

Baith careless, and fearless 
Of either heav'n or hell ; 
Esteeming and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 



Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce, 
IS T or make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit o' age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel ; 
They make us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 
Tho' losses and crosses 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'll find nae ither where. 



102 burns' poems. 

But tent rae, Davie, ace o' hearts, 

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest), 
This life has joys tor you and I, 
And joys that riches ne'er could huy, 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover and the frien'; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 
And I my darling Jean ! 
It warms me, it charms me, 
To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on flame. 

O, all ye Pow'rs, who rule above ! 
O, Thou, whose very self art Love! 
Thoa know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief, 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, all-seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r ! 

Still take her, and make' her 

Thy most peculiar cure ! 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sypathetic glow ; 
Long since this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest me witli a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 

And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens, 

The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

O, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin rank and file, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine 
As Phcebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 

And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, 

And rin an unco fit ; 

But lest then, the beast then, 

Should rue this hasty ride, 

I'll light now, and dight now 

His sweaty wizen'd hide. 



THE LAMENT, 



Alas! how oft does Goodness wound itself! 
And sweet Affection prove the spring of wo. 



O thou pale orb, that silent shines, 
While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 

Thou see'st a wretch that inly pines, 
And wanders here to wail and weep! 



104 burns' poems. 

With wo I nightly vigils keep, 
Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam, 

And mourn, in lamentation deep, 
How life and love are all a dream. 

I joyless view thy rays adorn 
The faintly-nnu ktd distant hill ; 

I joyless view thy trembling bora 
Reflected in the gargling rill : 

My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! 

Thou busy power, Remembrance, cease! 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace! 

Xo idly-feign'd poetic pains, 

3Iy sad, love-lorn lamenting claim ; 
Ts'o shepherd's pipe— Arcadian strains; 

IS T o fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft-attested Powers above; 
The promised Father's tender name; 

These were the pledges of my love ! 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptured moments flown ! 
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and her's alone ! 
And must I think it ! is she gone '. 

My sacred heart's exoltiag boast ! 
And does she heedless hear my groan ? 

And is she ever, ever lost? 

O ! can she bear so base a heart, 
So lost to honour, lost to truth, 

As from the fondest lover part, 
The plighted husband of her youth ! 

Alas! fife's path may lie onSBOOth! 

Her way may lie through rough distress! 



burns' poems. 105 

Then who her pangs and pains will sooth, 
Her sorrows share, and make them less ? 

Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd. 
That breast, how dreary now, and void*, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n every ray of hope destroy'd, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

The morn that warns th' approaching day, 

Awakes me up to toil and wo : 
I see tbe hours in long array, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang and many a throe, 

Keen Recollection's direful train, 
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, 

Shall kiss the distant western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore harass'd out with cave and grief, 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 
Or, if I slumber, Fancy, chief, 

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : 
Even day, all-bitter, brings relief, 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

O thou bright queen, who o'er the expanse, 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway : 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly, wand'ring, stray ; 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While Love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual kindling eye. 



106 BUBN8' Po; 

Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set ! 

Scenes, never, never to return ; 
Scenes, if in stupor I for 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From every joy and pleasure torn, 

Lite's weary vale I'll wander through ; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPOXDEXC Y. 



Oppressed with grief, oppress'd with care, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I set me down and sigh : 
O life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretcbes such as I ! 
Dim backward as I cast my view, 

What sick'ning scene appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me through, 
Too justly I may fear! 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom ; 

My woes here sball close ne'er, 

But with the closing tomb! 

Happy, ye sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard : 
Even when the wished end's denied, 

Vet while the busy mean* are plied. 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight. 

Unfitted with an aim, 



BURNS' POEMS. 107 



Meet every sad returning night, 
And joyless morn the same. 
You, bustling, and justling, 

Forget each grief and pain ; 
I listless, yet restless, 
Find every prospect vain. 



How blest the Solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all forgot, 

AVithin his humble cell, 
The cavern wild, with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well! 
Or, haply, to his evening thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream : 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heaven on high, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring, 
He views the solemn sky. 

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd, 
Where never human footstep trac'd, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move, 

With self-respecting art ; 
But, ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not', he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst I here, must cry here, 
At perfidy ingrate I 



.08 burns' poems. 

Oh ! enviable, early days, 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, 

To care, to guilt, unknown ! 
How ill exchang'd for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sporty 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses, 

That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all, 
Of dim-declining age! 



W IITES. 

A DIKGE. 

The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless day. 

' The sweping blast, the sky o'ercast,'* 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it sooths my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join ; 

* Dr. Young. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

The leafless trees my fancy please, 
Their fate resembles mine. 

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Thy Will ! 
Then all I want, (O, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !), 
Since to enjoy Thou must deny, 

Assist me to resign ! 



THE 

COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO R. AITKE5T, ESQ. 



Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short but simple annals of the poor. — Gray. 



My lov'd, my honour'd, much-respected friend! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise ; 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene : 
The native feelings strong, the guiless ways, 

What Aifken in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I 
ween ! 



110 BURNS' fOEMS. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

The shortening winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 

The blackening train o' craws to their repose : 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the mom in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the muir, his course does hameward 
bend. 

At length his lonely cot. appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee-things, todulin, stacher through 

To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise and glee. 
His wee-bit ingle, blinkin bonnilie, 

His clean hearthstane, his thrifty imfie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 

Does a'"his weary carking cares beguile, 
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. 

Bely ve the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out amang the farmers roun' ; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin in her ee, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, 

Or deposite her sair-won penny fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 
And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 

The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet ; 
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 

The parents, partial, ee their hopefu' years : 
Anticipation forward points the view : 



BURNS' POEMS. Ill 

The Mother, wi' her needle and her sheers, 

Gars auld elaes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
The Father mixes a' wi' admonition due 1 . 

Their master's and their mistress's command 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 

And ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk and play ; 
' And O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

And mind your duty duly morn and night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord 
aright.' 

But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door, 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's ee, and flush her cheek ; 
With heart-struck anxious care inquires his name, 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak, 
Weel-pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild worthless 
rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben : 

A strappan youth ; he taks the mother's eye; 
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-taen ; 

The father cracks o' horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

But blate and faithfu', scarce can weel behave ; 
The mother wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What maks the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave : 
Weel pleas'd to think her dami'srespectitlikethe lave. 

O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
O heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 



112 burns' poems. 

I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 
And sage Experience bids me this declare — 

i If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

J Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening 
gale.' 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 

A wretch ! a villain 1 lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjur'd arts I dissembling smooth » 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exii'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild ? 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food. ; 
The soupe their only Hawkie does afford, 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood : 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, 
And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it gude; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They round the ingle form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,' 

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care, 
And ' Let us worship God !' he says, with solemn air. 



BURNS 5 POEMS. US 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim ; 
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 
Or noble Elgin beets the heav'n-ward flame. 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd wi' these, Italian trills are tame; 

The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise; 
Nae unison hae they wi' our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage, 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire : 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How his first followers and servants sped, 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How lie, who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by 
Heaven's command. 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, 
The saint, the father, and the husband, prays: 

Hope ' ftprings exulting on triumphant wing,'* 
That thus they all shall meet in future days ; 

* Pope's Windsor Forest. 



11-1 burns' poems. 

There ever bask in uncreated rays 

No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, 

Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 

While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's every grace, except the heart! 
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pieas'd, the language of the soul ; 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their several way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest; 
The parent pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, 
That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide : 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

' An honest man's the noblest work of God ;' 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behiDd; 
What is a lordlin^'s pomp ? a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refiu'd ! 

O, Scotia! my dear, my native soil; 
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! 



BURNS' POEMS. 11d 

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! 

And, O ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
From luxury's cottagion, weak and vile ! 

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while, 

And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide, 

That stream'd through ITV^/ace^indauntedheart; 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, thesecond glorious part, 
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 
O never, never .Scotia's realm desert; 

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard. 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 

A DIPGE. 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One evening as I wander'd forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spy'd a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow' d o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ? 

Began the reverend sage; 
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 

Or youthful pleasure's' rage ? 
12 



116 BURNS' POEMS. 

Or, haply, prest with care and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man ! 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And every time has added proofs, 

That man was made to mourn. 

O man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mis-spending .all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway : 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's laws, 

That man was made to mourn. 

Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right : 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want, oh ! ill-match'd pair ! 

Shew man was made to mourn. 

A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest, 
But, oh ! what crowds in every land, 

Are wretched and forlorn ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 117 



Thro' weary life this lesson learn, 
That man was made to mourn. 



Many and sharp the num'rous ills 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Eegret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heav'n-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man, 

Makes countless thousands mourn. 

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, though a weeping wife, 

And helpless offspring, mourn. 

If I'm yon haughty lordling's slave, 

By nature's law design'd, 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn? 
Or why has man the will and pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn? 

Yet let not this too much my son, 
Disturb thy youthful breast : 

This partial view of human kind 
Is surely not the last ! 

The poor, oppressed, honest man, 
Had never, sure, been born, 



18 BURNS' POEMS. 

Had there not been some recompense 
To comfort tliose that mourn. 

O, Death, the poor man's dearest friend. 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest, 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn! 
But, oh ! a blest relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn ! 



A PRAYER 

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear, 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something~loud\y in my breast 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

Thou know'st that thou hast formed me 
"With passions wild and strong ; 

And list'ning to their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Or frailty stept aside, 
Do thou, All-Good! for such thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Where with intention, I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But — Thou art food; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



STANZAS 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene? 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? 
Some drops of joy, with draughts of ill between: 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms : 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, { Forgive my foul offence !' 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray ! 

Again exalt the brute, and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? 
Who sin so ofthavernourn'd,yet to temptation ran • 

O Thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that controlling pow'r assist e'en me, 

Those headlong furious passions to confine ; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line : 
O, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine ! 



1*20 burns' poems. 



LEFT AT A PRIEND'S HOUSE, WHERE THE AUHOR 
SLEPT ONE NIGHT. 

O Thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above, 

I know thou wilt me hear; 
"When for this scene of peace and love, 

I make my pray'r sincere. 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 

Long, long be pleas'd to spare ! 
To bless his little filial flock, 

And show what good men are. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears, 
O bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears ! 

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 

In manhood's dawning blush; 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 

Up to a parent's wish ! 

The beauteous seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thouknow'st the snares on every hand, 

Guide thou their steps alway ! 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 

O'er life's rough ocean driven, 
May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 

A family in heaven ! 



burns' poems. 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

The man, in life wherever placed, 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns the guilty lore ! 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride, 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast, 

And, like the rootless stubble, tost 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath given them peace and rest, 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



A PRAYER, 

UNDER THE PRESSURE OE VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

O Thou Great Being ! what thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure I am, that known to thee 

Are all thy works below. 



122 BURNS' POEAIS. 

Thy creature here below thee stands, 
All wretched and distrest; 

Yet sure those ills that wring ray soul 
Obey thy high behest. 

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath! 
O, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close themYast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be, 
To suit some wise design ; 

Then man my soul with firm resolves 
To bear and not repine ! 



THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH 

PSALM. 

O Thou, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling-place. 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand, 
Before this poYid'rous globe itself 

Arose at thy command. 

That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning time 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 
Which seem to us so vast, 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Appear no more before thy sight 
Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought : 
Again thou say'st, ' tfe sons of men, 

' Return ye into nought !' 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But long ere night cut down it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, 
IN APRIL, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is* past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem! 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie Lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 

Wi' speckled breast, 
When upward-springing;, blithe, to greet 

The purpling east. 



124 burns' poems. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ■ 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
[Scai-ce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting fiow'rs our gardens yield, 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield ; 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise : 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade, 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, ail soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of 'prudent Lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 

Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
Who long with wants and woes has striven, 



burns' poems. 125 

By human pride or cunning driven, 

To misery's brink, 
Till, wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, 

He, ruin'd, sink! 

Evn thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom. 



TO RUIN. 



All hail ! inexorable lord 

At whose destruction-breathing word 

The mightiest empires fall, 
Thy cruel, wo-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolvd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart, 
Then low'ring, and pouring, 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Tho' thickening, and blackening 
Round my devoted head. 

And thou, grim power, by life abhorrd, 
While life a pleasure can afford, 

Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer ! 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 

To close this scene of care! 



126 burns' poems. 

When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's' joyless day; 
My weary heart in throbbings cease, 
Cold mouldering in the clay? 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain my lifeless face; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



TO MISS LOGAN, 

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, AS A NEW-YEAR'S 
JANUARY 1, 1787. 

Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round have driven, 

And you, though scarce in maiden prime, 
Are so much nearer Heaven. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts, 

In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 
Is charged, perhaps, too true ! 

But may, dear maid, each lover prove 
An Edicin still to you ! 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

May 1786. 

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 
A something to have sent you, 



burls' poems. 127 

Tho' it should serve nae other end 

Than just a kind memento; 
But how the subject-theme may gang, 

Let time and chance determine ; 
Per haps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, 

Andy'Andrezv dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 

And muckle they may grieve ye : 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Even when your end's attained ; 
And a' your views may come to nought, 

Where every nerve is strained. 

I'll no say men are villains a' : 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law 

Are to a few restricted : 
But, och ! mankind are unco weak, 

And little to be trusted; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 

It's rarely right adjusted ! 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should na censure, 
For still th' important end o' life 

They equally may answer : 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him, 
A man may tak a neeoor's part, 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 

Aye free, aff han' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom-crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 



» BURNS' poems. 

Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' every other man 

WP sharpen'd sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it, 
I waive the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard of concealing : 
But och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling. 

To catch dame fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by every wile, 

That's justify'd by honour ; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Nor for a train-attendant; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent . 

The fear o' hell's ahangman's whip, 

To haud the wretch in order ; 
But where you feel your honour grip, 

Let that aye be your border : 
In slightest touches, instant pause — 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere, 
Must sure become the creature ; 

But still the preaching cant forbear, 
And ev'n the rigid feature: 

Yet ne'er with wits profance to range, 
Be complaisance extended ; 



burns' poems. 1 

An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 
For Deity offended ! 

When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded ; 
Or if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded ; 
But when on life we're tempest-driv'n 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n 

Is sure a noble anchor! 

Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting : 
May Prudence, Fortitude, and Truth, 

Erect your brow unclaunting ! 
In ploughman-phrase, " God send you speed,' 

Still daily to grow wiser ; 
And may ye better reck the rede, 

Than ever did th' adviser. 



ON A SCOTCH BARD, 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

A' ye wha live by soups o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wha live and never think, 

Come, mourn wi' rue '. 
Our billie's gi'en us a' a jink, 

And owre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye rantin core, 
Wha dearly like" a ranclom-spiore ; 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, 
In social key j 
K 



30 burns' poems. 

For now he's ta'en anither shore, 
And owre the sea. 

The bonny lasses weel may wiss him, 
And in their dear petitions place him; 
The widows, wives, and a' may bless him, 

Wi' tearfu' ee ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre' the sea! 

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ; 
Hadst thou ta'en affsome drousy bummle, 
Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, 

Twad been nae plea ; 
But he was gleg as ony wumble, 

That's owre the sea ! 

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear; 
'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her laureate mony a year, 

That's owre the sea ! 

He saw Misfortune's cauld nor'-west 
Lansr mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jillet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 
So, took a birth afore the mast, 

And owre the sea ! 

To tremble under Fortune's cummoek, 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
Wi' his proud independent stomach, 

Could ill agree, 
So row't his hurdies in a Tiamvioclt, 

And owre the sea. 



burns' poems. 131 

He ne'er was gi'en to great misguiding, 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ; 

He dealt it free : 
The Muse was a' that he took pride in, 

That's owre the sea^ 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
And hap him in a cozie biel; 
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, 

And fu' o' glee ! 
He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, 

That's owre the sea. 

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie I 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonnilie ! 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea. 



TO A HAGGIS. 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the paddin-race! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm ; 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 
K 2 



132 burns' poems. 

His knife see rustic labour (light, 
And cut you up wi' ready sleight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright, 

Like ouy ditch ; 
And then, O what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin, rich. 

Then horn for horn they stretch and strive 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes, belyve, 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld gudeman, maist like to rive, 

Bethank'd hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view, 

On sic a dinner? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 

As feckless as a wither'd rash, 

His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash, 

His nieve a nit ; 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, 

O how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, 

The trembling earth resounds his tread, 

Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whissle; 
And legs, and arms, and heads will sned, 

Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye powers, wha mak mankind your care 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 



BURNS POEMS. 



Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 
That jaups in biggies ; 

But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 
Gie her a Haggis ! 



A DEDICATION 

TO GAYIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Expect na, sir, in this narration, 

A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, 

To roose you up, aud ca' you guid, 

And sprung o' great and noble bluid, 

Because ye're sirnanied like his Grace, 

Perhaps related to the race; 

Then when I'm tir'd — and sae are ye, 

Wi' mony a fulsome siufu' lie, 

Set up a face, how I stop short, 

For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, sir, wi' them wha 
May please the great folk for a wamefou ; 
For me ! sae laigh I needna bow, 
For, Lord be thankit ! I can pleugh ! 
And when I downa yoke a naig, 
Then, Lord be thankit ! I can beg ! 
Sae I shall say, and that's nae fiatterin, 
Its just sic poet, and sic patron. 

The Poet, some guid angel help him ! 
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him ; 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron (sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me), 
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, 
He's just— nae better than he should be. 



134 BURNS' poems. 

I readily and freely grant, 
lie downa see a poor man want; 
What's no his ain he winna t;ik it, 
What ance ho says he winna break it; 

< taght he can lend hell no refos't, 
Till aft his guidness is abased; 

And rascals whylcs that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, in- does na mind it lanir : 
A- master, landlord, husband, father, 
He (!'n- na fail his part in either. 

But then, aae thanks to him for a' that; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca 1 that; 
It 'a oaething but a milder .' 

< tf our poor sinfu' corrupt nature : 
Vc'll get th<' best of mora] work-,, 

_ black Gentoos ami pagan Tarks, 

«)r hunters wild on PonotctXl, 
Wha in-, cr heard of orthodoxy. 
That In-'- the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's do thro 1 terror of d-mn-ti-n; 
It'sju^t a carnal inclination. 

.Morality, thon deadly bane, 
Thy t « - 1 1 — o 1 thousands thon hast slain ; 
Vain i> his hi and trust is 

In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No— stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
- al thro' a teinnoek free a wh-re, 
But point the rake that taks the door ; 
Be to the poor like ony whunstane, 
And hand their noses to the grunstane ; 
Ply e\ Yy art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter, stick to sound believing. 

Learn three-mile pray'rs and half-mile graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces; 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Grunt up a solemn lengthen'd groan, 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

O ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin, 
For gumlie clubs o' your ain delvin ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! 
When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him : 
While o'er the harp pale Mis'ry moans, 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon, sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, sir, ye see, 'twas nae daft vapour ; 
Bat I maturely thought it proper, 
When a' my works I did review, 
To dedicate them, sir, to You : 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel. 

Then patronize them wi' your favour, 

And your petitioner shall ever 

I had amaist said, ever pray, 

But that's a word I need na say: 

For praying I hae little skill o't ; 

I'm baith dead-sweer, and wretched ill o't; 

But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, 

That kens or hears about you, sir 



136 burns' poems. 

" May ne'er Misfortune's gowlin bark 
Howl thro 1 the dwelling o' the Clerk! 
May ne'er his gen'rous honest heart, 
Tor that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 
May Kennedy's far-honour'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 
'fill Hamilton.-,, at least a dizen, 
Are frae their nuptial labours risen: 
Five bonny lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stout and able 
To serve their king and country week 

By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 

May health and peace, wi 1 mutual rays, 
Shine on the ev'ning o' his days; 
Till his wee curlie John? I ier-oe, 
When ebbing Life one mair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow !" 



I will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion ; 

But whilst yonr wishes and endeavours 
Are blest wi' fortune's smiles and favours, 
I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) 
That iron-hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances, 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances, 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him. 
Make you as poor a dog as I am, 
Your humble servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor! 
But, by a poor man's hopes in Heaven! 
While recollection's power is gi^en, 
If, in the vale of humble life, 
The victim sad of fortune's strife. 



burns' poems. 137 

I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 

Should recognise my master dear, 

If friendless, low, we meet thegither, 

Then, sir, your hand — my friend and brother ! 



TO A LOUSE, 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHTTBCHo 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crawlin ferlie ! 
Your impudence protects you sairly ; 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely. 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt and sinner, 
How dare you let your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ! 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 
Wi' ither kindred jumpin cattle, 

In shoals and nations ; 
"Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rils, snug and tight ; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

O' Miss's bonnet I 



138 BURNS' POEM& 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out, 
A> plump and irray as ony grozet ; 
C) for some rank mercurial rozet, 

< )r fell, red smedawn, 

I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o'l . 

Wad dress your drodduru ! 

1 wad na been surprised to Bpy 
Yon on ;m auld wife's flannen toy ; 
< >r aiblins Bome l»it duddi( 

Bat Miss's fine Lunar di! fle, 

How dare you do't ! 

( >. ./. "/>/. dinna toes your head, 
i your beauties a' a bread! 
Ye little ken wbal cursed speed 

The blastie's oiakinl 

I • ad, 
Are notice takin ! 

■ the giftie grie us 

it wa 1 frae monie a blunder free us 
.\u<\ foolish ootion : 

What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us, 
And ev'u Devotion! 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 

EDIlf A ! Scotia'' x darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 



burns' poems. 139 

From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy trade his labours plies; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

Thy sons, Edtna, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, 

Above the narrow rural vale; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name ! 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn! 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring' eye, 

Heavn's beauties on my fancy shine ; 
I see the sire of love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine. 

There, watching high the least alarms, 
Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar ; 

Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms, 
And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 

The pond'rous wall and massy bar. 
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, 



40 stnure' poe.ms. 

Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repell'd Hi' invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 
I \ iew thai noble, stately dome, 

\\ here Scotia?* kings of other years, 
I'ain'il heroes, had their royal home: 

Ala- ! how Changed tlic times to com*.' ! 

Their royal name h>\. in the dust ! 

Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam 

Tiio' rigid law cries out, 'twas just! 

WiU beats my heart to trace your steps, 
Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 

Thro' hostile ranks ami ruin'd gaps 
< (id Scotia's bloody lion b 

/'. who Bing in ru itic lore. 
Haply my sires have left their shed, 

And mc'd '_ r rim danger's loudest i""ar, 

B yoW father.- led ! 

Km N 

All hail thy palacet 

Where once beneath a monarch - feet 
Sat leg 'reign powers! 

From marking wildly-scatterd tlow'rs, 
A- on tin- banks "♦' Ayr l Btray'd, 

And Binging, lone, the lingering hours, 
I shelter in thy bonour/d - 



BURNS' POEMS. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 

April 1, 1785. 

While briers and woodbines budding green. 
And paitricks scraiching loud at e'en, 
And mornin poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown frien' 

I pray excuse. 

On Fasten-een we had a rockin, 

To ca' the crack, and weave our stocking 

And there was muckle fun and jokin, 

Ye need na doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin 

At sang about. 

There was ae sang amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, 
Tbat some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, 
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark !" 
They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk, 

It pat me fidgin fain to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spier't, 



4 "- BURNS' poems. 

Then a' that kent him round declar't 

He had ingine, 
That nane excell'd it, few cam neart, 

It was sae fine. 

That, set him to a pint o' ale, 

And either donee or merry tale, 

Or rhymes and Bangs he'a made himsel, 

< >r witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, 

He hud few matches. 

Then np I rat, and swore an aith, 

Tho 1 I should pawn my plengh and graith, 

( >r die a cadger pownie's di 

At Borne dyke-hack, 

A pint and gill I'd '_ r i<.' them baith 
To hear yonr crack. 

Hut, first and foremost, I Bhonld tell, 
Amaist :.^ Boon as I could spell, 
1 to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude and rough, 
Yet crooning to a bod; 

Does weel eueugh. 

I am nae poet, in a B 

But just a rlii/mcr, like, by chance, 

And nae to learning nae pretence, 

. what the matter? 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 
I jingle at her. 

Yonr critic-folk may cock their nose, 
And say, ' How can you e'er propose, 
You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 
To inak a sang V 



burns' poems. 

But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 
Ye're maybe wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns and stools, 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What sairs your grammars ? 
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, 

Or knappin-hammers. 

A set a dull conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes f 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak; 
And syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek. 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub and mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, tho' hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 

Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee, 

Or bright Lapraik'Sj my friend to be, 

If I can hit it; 
That would be lear eneugh for me, 

If I could get it. 

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I believe, are few, 
Yet if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif you want a friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 



44 BURMA' roi 

I wirma blaw about raysel ; 

As ill I like my t'auts to tell : 

But friends, ami folk thai wish me well, 

- imetimefl roose me ' 
Tho I maun own, as monie -till 
As far abuse me. 

There's ae weefaut they whyles lay to me, 

I like the lass< a— ' lode forgie me ! 

For mony a plack they wheedle frae me, 

At dance <>r fair ; 
Mny be some ither thing they gie me 

They weel can spare. 

But Mauchline race, or Mi auckltne fair, 

:.l be pr« .ml to meet you there ; 
night's discharge to care, 
J i' we forgather, 
And hue a swap o' rhyrmn-vxxrt 

\\V ane aiiitlnT. 

Tin' four-gOl chap, we'se -jrar him clatter, 
Ami Irirsen him wi' reekin water, 

>\ n.- w.'ll .-it down ami tak ourwhitter, 

To cheer our heart ; 
.\ml faith we'se be acquainted hetter 
Before we part. 

Awa, ye selfish warly race, 
Wha think that bavins, sense, and grace, 
Ev'n love and friendship, should give place 
To catch-the-placm! 

I dinna like to see your face, 

H or hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Who hold your being on the terms, 

( Each aid the others, 5 

Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 

My friends, my brothers ! 

But, to conclude my lang epistle, 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle; 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 

Who am, most fervent, 
While I can either sing, or whistle, 

Your friend and servant. 



TO THE SAME. 
April 21, 1785. 



While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, 
And pownies reek in pleugh or braik, 
This hour on e'ening's edge I take, 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs, 
Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing through amang the naigs 

Their ten-hours bite, 
My awkward Muse sair pleads and begs, 

I wadna write. 

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzy, 

She's saft at best, and something lazy, 

Quo' she, ' Ye ken, we've been sae bizzie 

This month and mair, 
That, trouth, my head is grown right dizzie, 

And something sair.' 



UUB 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad : 
' Conscii nc .' says I. • ye thowlessjadc! 
I'll write, and that a hearty bland, 
This vera night ; 
■ affronl your 

]Jut rhyme i; 

' Shall bauld Lapraik, tlie king- <y hearts, 

l k o' cartes, 
Roost our deserts, 

In terms Bfte friendly, 

■ show your parts, ' 

And thank him kindly '.' 

r in a blink, 
And ni j'ii V the ink : 

Quoth I, • Before I sleep a wink, 

I \OW I'll ('!• 

And if ye winna mak ir clink, 

Jove I'll prose it !' 

Bae 1 trawl, hut whether 

hi i ii . ••:• baith tin gither, 

• - rfghtly neither, 

Let time mak proof; 
But I shall scribble < ether, 

Just clean aff'-loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge and carp, 
Thu' fbrtiiii' .arp; 

Come, kittle up your muirland harp 

Vv'i' gleesome touch ! 
Ne'er mind how fortune iroj't and KWfJl . 

She's hut a h-tch. 

She s sricn me monv a jirt and fie;:. 
Sin' I could striddfe owre a rig ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 147 

But, by the L — d, tho' I should beg 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg, 

As lang's I dow ! 

Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

I, Rob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city gent, 

Behint a kist to lie and sklent, 

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 

And muckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A bailie's name ? 

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, 
Wi' ruffled sark and glancin cane, 
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane > 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps and bonnets aff are ta'en, 

As by he walks. 

' O Thou wha gies us each gude gift, 

Gie me o' wit and sense a lift, 

Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 

In a' their pride.' 

Were this the charter of our state, 

' On pain o' hell be rich and great,' 

Damnation then would be our fate. 

Beyond remead; 

L 2 



148 burns' poems. 

But, thanks to Heav'n! that's no the gate 
We learn our creed. 

For thus the royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race began, 
1 Tiie social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he he, 
Tis he fulfils great Nature's i>lan, 

Ami none but het' 

<> mandate glorious and divine ! 
The ragg< d followers o' the nine, 

Poor thoughtless devils, yet may shine 

In glorious li'_ r ht, 
While sordid sons o' Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they sera pi-, and squeeze, and growl, 
Their worthless nievera' of a soul 
.May in some future carcass howl. 

The forest's fright, 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

shun the light 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies, 
And ting their pleasures, hopes, and joys, 

In some mild sphere, 
.Mill closer knit in friendship's ties, 

Each passing year. 



burns' poems. 149 

TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, 

OCHILTREE. 

May, 1785. 

I gat your letter, winsome Willie : 
Wi' gratefu' heart, I thank you brawlie; 
Though I maun say't, I wad be silly, 

And unco vain, 
Should I believe, my coaxin billie, 

Your flatterin strain. 

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 

On my poor musie; 
Though in sic phrasin terms ye've penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but daur a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertjield, 

The braes o' fame ; 
Or Fergmson, the writer chiel, 

A deathless name. 

(O Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's dry, musty arts ; 

My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 

Ye Enbrugh gentry ! 
The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
Or lassie gie my heart a screed, 



ISO HURNS' 1'OKMS. 

As whylee they're like to be my dead, 

(0 sad disease [) 

I kittle up my rustic n e I, 
It gies me 

Auld Coila iiinv may fidge ftf rain, 

Bhe's gotten poets o' her ain, 

( 'hid- v.l:;i their chanters winna hain, 

Bnt time their lays, 
Til! echoes a' resound again 

Her wi el-sung praise. 

Nae poet thought her worth his while, 
To b t her name In measnr'd style ; 
She lay Like some nnkenn'd-of isle 

Beside New Holland, 
< )r whar wild-meeting oceans boil 

Qied Forth and Toy a lii't b 

inie I tune, 
Owre Scotland rinf 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, and boon, 
i Ige. 

Tli' TUiuua, Tiber, T7iames,tmi Seine, 

• tunefn' line; 
JJut, Willie, set your fit to mine, 

And cocli ■ 
Well -.car our streams and* burnies shine 

Up wi' the I 

We'll sint£ auld Coila's plains and fella, 
Hermuirs red-brown wi' heather-hell-, 
Her hunks and hri i deih, 

W'h;. H Mace 



burns' poems. 151 

Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae southron billies. 

At Wallace 1 name, what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft hae our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward red-wat shod, 

Or glorious died. 

O sweet are Coila's baughs and woods, 
When lintwhites chant aniang the buds, 
And jinkin hares in amorous whids, 

Their loves enjoy, 
While through the braes the cushat croods 

Wi' wailfn' cry. 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me, 
When winds rave through the naked tree ; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray ; 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day ! 

O Nature I a' thy shews and forms, 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
Whether the summer kindly warms 

Wi' life and light, 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 

The lang dark night ! 

The Muse, nae poet everfand her, 
Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trottin burn's meander, 

And no think lang ; 
O sweet, to stray and pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang ! 



Mi BURKS 1 I'OKMs. 

The warty race may drudge and drive, 
Bog-ehonther.juncDe, Btreteh, and strive, 
Let me lair Nature?* fare descrive, 
And I. w? pleasure, 

•Shall let the hiz/.y, ^Tumbling liive 

Bum o'er their treasure. 

Fareweel, " my rhyme-COmpo&mg hrithcr," 
\\ .'\,- been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: 

Ni'V, It us lay our heads theirither, 

in love fraternal : 

May Etwy wallop in a tether. 

Black fiend, infernal ! 

While Righlandmen hate tolls ami taxes ; 
While Bfnirlan' herd- Likegude fat hraxies; 
While Terra Pinna, on h i 

Hie 
Count on a friend, in faith and practice, 

Jn Robert limns. 



My memory's no worth a preen; 
I had amaist forgotfo d i 

■ me write yon what they mean 

By this newH 
'Bout which our nerds sac aft liae been 

Maist like to fight 

In days when mankind were but callans 
A grammar, logic, and sic talents, 

• See Note page 44. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

They took nae pains their speech to balance, 

Or rules to gie, 
But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallan.?, 

Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the moon 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon 

Gaed past their yiewin, 
And shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new ane. 

This past for certain, undisputed; 

It ne'er cam in their heads to doubt it, 

Till chiels gat up and wad confute it, 

And ca'd it wrang ; 
And muckle din there was about it, 

Both loud and lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, 

And out o' sight, 
And backlins-corain, to theleuk 

She grew mair bright. 

This was deny'd, it was aifirm'd ; 

The herds and hissels were alarm'd ; 

The rev'rend graybeards rav'd and storm'd, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words and aiths to clours and nicks, 
And mony a fallow gat his licks, 
Wi' hearty crunt ; 



I">1 burns' POEMS. 

And some, to learn them for their tricks 
Were hanged and brunt. 

This game was played in maaj lands, 
.\nd auld-Ughi caddies bare sie hands, 

That faith, the younfi Bands 

able shanks, 
Till lairds fori • commands, 

: idy pranks. 

Hut in w-lighi herds eat sir b 

l'olk thonght them ruin'd stick and stowe, 

Till now amaist on every knowe, 

Ye'll find ane plac'd; 
And Borne, their new-light fair avow, 
[nite barefae'cL 

Nfae donbl tin- avid-light flock* are bleatui : 
reatin ; 

■I -i en them greetin 

To hear the //' lied <>n 

ird and write. 

Hut shortlV they will cowe the loons, 

•light herds Inni 
An- mind't, in thin. >nx, 

To tak a flight, 

And see them right. 

ation they will gie them ; 
A /nl ■ . to lea'e them, 

The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch, 
And when the new-light billies see then), 

I think they'll crouch. 



BURNS 5 POEMS. 



Sae, ye observe, that a' this clatter 

Is naething but a " moonshine matter;" 

But though dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic bruilzie. 



EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKIN, 

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 

O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankin, 
The wale o' cocks for "fun and drinkin ! 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin 

Your dreams* and tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin, 

Straught to auld Nick's. 

Ye hae sae mony cracks and cants, 
And in your wicked, drucken rants, 
Ye mak a deevil o' the saunts, 

And fill them fu' ; 
And then their failings, flaws, and want&, 

Are a' seen through. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 

That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 

Spare't for their sakes wha al'ten wear it, 

The lads in Mack ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Rives't aff their back. 



* A certain humorous dream of his was then makir 
noise in the country-side. 



150 BUMS' POBMB. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're scaithin«r, 
1:'- just the blue-gown badge and claithing 
O' Baonta ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething 

To ken them by, 
I'rae ony unregenerate heathen, 

like yon or I. 

l\r Bent yon '.■ ming waif, 

I bargain'd i'>r ami mair ; 

Sa£, an hum- to cm 

1 will ■ 
I ■".'/;* ye'U sen't, wi' cannie care, 

An l no neglect. 

Though faith, Bma 1 heart hae I to sing! 
My Blase dow Bcsrcely Bpread her wing! 

I'm- plaj 'd m\>< 1 a I . onie Bpring. 

Ami danced my fill ; 
I'd better gone ami sair't the kin^r, 



'Twaa ae eight lately, in my fun, 
J gaed a roving wi' the gun, 
ight hpatrit 

A bonnie b 
And, as the twilight was began, 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thinLr was little hurt ; 

I BtraOut it a i 

Ne'er thinkin they would lash me for't; 

But deil-ma-care! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale affair. 



A long he had promised the Author. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note, 
That sic a hen had got a shot; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

And pay't the fee. 

But, hy my gun, o' guns the wale, 
And by my pouther and my hail, 
And hy my hen, and by her tail, 

I vow and swear, 
The game shall pay, o'er muir and dale, 

For this, neist year. 

As soon's the clockin-time is by, 
And the wee pouts begin to cry, 
L — d, I'se hae sportin by and by, 

For my gowcl guinea, 
Though I should herd the buckskin kye 

For't, in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame ! 
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, 
But twa-three draps about the wame, 

Scarce through the feathers j 
And baith a yellow George to claim, 

And thole their blethers ! 

It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; 
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ! 
But pennyicortlis again are fair, 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am, respected sir, 

Your most obedient, 



lo8 ju i:.\*' ro;:\rs. 

waiTTsa in 
FBIABS-CARSE BEEMITAGE, 

OH mtusihe. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 

Be tlniu clad in rased weed. 

■ u deck'd in silken stole, 
'( .rase these connselfl <>n thy soul. 

bnt a flay at 

Sprai j i, iii darkness I 

cot sunshine every hour, 

■ - lower. 

with sprightly danae, 
ance, 
Pleasure with 

- pair; 

(Up, 

nd Bip it np. 
.\s thy day grows warm and high, 

I l :' 

D il thou Bpnrn the bumbl 

roud summits would'st thou scale] 
1 ■'. thy climbing step, elate, 
E\ ils lurk in feloi 
Dane 

S r around each cliffy hold, 
While cheerful peace, with linnet-song, 
Chants the lowly d 

Beck'niiip thee to 



BURNS' POEMS. 159 

As life itself becomes disease, 

Seek the chimney-nook of ease, 

There ruminate with sober thought, 

On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought, 

And teach the sportive younkers round, 

Saws of experience, sage and sound, 

Say, man's tme ; genuine, estimate, 

The grand criterion of his fate, 

Is not, Art thou high or low ? 

Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 

Did many talents gild thy span? 

Or frugal nature grudge thee one? 

Tell them, and press it on their mind, 

As thou thyself must shortly find, 

The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, 

To virtue or to vice is giv'n, 

Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 

There solid self-enjoyment lies; 

That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 

Lead to the wretched, vile and base. 

Thus resiscn'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never break, 
Till future life, future no more, 
Till light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heav'n be thy guide ! 
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. 



ODE, 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. — OF — , 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation mark ! 



160 hlknV POBMS. 

Who in widow-weeds, sippears, 
Ladea with unhonour'd years, 
Noosing with care a bursting parse, 

Baited with many a deadly curse .' 



View the withered beldam's face- 
Can thy keen inspection trace 

I of humanity's Bweet melting grace? 
.Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 

Pity's flood there nc\ 

See ne'er Btretch'd to save, 

thai took— but never [ 
Keeper of Blammon'e iron c 
l.<>, there Bh ..-• -. onpitied and onblest 

-, hut imt to realms of everlasting rest ! 

PHB. 

Plunderer of armies lift thine ( 
( \ while fori* ar, ye tort'ring fiends,] 

;i. unwilling, hither bends? 

No fallen angel, anrl'd from upper skies: 
'TIs thy trusty quondam m 
Doom'd to share th; 

She, tardy, helhvard plies. 



And are they of no more avail. 

Ten thousand glitt'rmg pounds a-year ? 
In other worlds can .Mamuion fail, 

< hnnipotent as he i- 
< >, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 

While down thewretched driven' 

Thee-. ';r, with a conscience clear, 

Expires in rag?, unknown, and goes to Heaven. 



BURNS' poems. 
ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON, 



But now his radiant course is run, 
For Matthew's course was bright ; 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless, heav'nly light. 



O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 
The meikle deevil wi' a woodie 
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 

The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 

Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exiled. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join ye, Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers ! 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens, 
Wi' todlin din, 



Ml BURNS' POEMS. 

Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 
Free linn to linn. 

Mourn little harebells o'er the lee j 
\- stately foxgloves, fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines banging bonnilie. 

In scented i»<»w'rs ; 
Ye roses on vour thorny tree, 

The first of flo 

At dawn, when ev*ry grassy blade 

Dra >ps with a diamond at bis head, 

At e'en, when beans their fragrance shed, 

I' thf rustling gale. 
Ye mankins whiddin thro' the glade, 

( join my wail. 

Ifourn, yewe< mgsters o* the wood ; 
thai crap the heather i>'nl ; 
I curlews calling through a clod ; 

Ye whistling plover j 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood j 

He's tram- for ever! 

Mourn, sooty coots and speckled teals; 
Ye fisher herons, watching eeli ; 
nek and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'rin? eraiks at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay; 
And when ye wiug your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 

Wham we deplore. " 



BURNS' POEMS. 163 

Ye howlets, frae your ivy bow'r, 
In some auld tree or eldritch tow'r, 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, 

Sets up her horn, 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn 1 

O, rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of wo ; 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, 

for him that's dead ! 

Thou, autum, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air, 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 

Ne'er to return. 

O Henderson ! the man ! the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! 
m 2 



ni burns pram. 

And hast thou crost that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound ! 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 

The world uround ! 

< ... to yonr sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth I 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 



tin: EPITAPH. 

Si-op, passenger! my Btory'i brief, 

And truth 1 Bball r< late, man ; 
I teU oae common tale o 1 grief, 
I man. 

If tli-.ii uncommon merit bast, 
Yet Bpnrn'd at fortune's door, man, 

A look of pity hither cast, 
For Edatthi ■ man. 

If thou a noble sodger art, 
That passest by this grave, man, 

There moulders here a gallant heart, 
Pol .Matthew was a brave man 

[f thou on men, their works and ways, 
f'un-t throw uncommon light, man, 

Here lies wha wee] bad won thy praise, 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca', 
Wad life itself resign man ; 



burns' poems. 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa', 
For Matthew was a kin' man ! 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 
Like the unchanging blue, man • 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
And ne'er gude wine did fear, man ; 

This wa? thy billie, dam, and sire, 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whinging sot, 
To blame poor Matthew dare, man, 

May dool and sorrow be his lot, 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OP SPRING. 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o : daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But naught can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
Tho merle, in his noontide bow'r, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 



1HG burns' poems. 

The mavis wild, wi' many a note, 

Binge drowsy day to rest; 
Jn lore and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the hank, 

The primrose down the brae j 
The hawthorn's bndding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the Blae: 
The meanest hind la fair Scotland 

Kay roi e their Bweel amang ; 
Bnl I, the Qneen of a' Scotland, 

Maim lie in prison Strang. 

I was the Qneen o' bonnie Prance. 

Where happy J bae been ; 

Fn' lightly ruse I In the morn, 

v> blithe laj down at e'en : 

And 1 Ui the Sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yt i here I lie in foreign bands, 
And nerein oding care. 

Bat as for thee, thon false woman, 

My Bister and my fae, 
<irim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 

That throngfa thy - ail shall gae : 
Tin- weeping blood in woman's breast 

v7as never known to thee' 
Nor the balm that drape on wounds of WO 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 

M . - d ' my - n ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shim,' ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ; 
( tod keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

( >r turn their hearts to thee: 



burns' poems. 167 

And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 
Remember him for me ! 

O ! soon to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ; 
And in the narrow house o'death 

Let winter round me rave; 
And the next flowers that deck the spring 

Bloom on my peaceful grave. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 

OF FINTRA. 

Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg ; 
Dull, listless, teased, dejected and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest j) 
Will generous Graham list to his poet's wail? 
(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,) 
And hear him curse the light he first surveyed, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade. 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forest, and one spurns the ground : 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom' d wasp, victorious, guards his cell. 
Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour, 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. — 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug. 



166 BURNS' 1'OK.M.S. 

Ev'n silly woman has her warlike art9, 

Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts. 

Hut oh ! thou hitter step-mother and hard, 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard! 
A tiling unteaehable in world's skill, 
And half an idiot too, more helpless -till. 
No heels to hear him from the opening dun; 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 
No horn-, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, alas! not AmsJthea's horn : 
No nerves olfactr'y, Mammon's trusty cur, 
(lad in rich dulness, comfortable fhr. 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 
Be bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side: 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

( iitii appalTd, I venture on the name, 

Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : 
i; ctors, worse than ten .Monroes— 

I - to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more Sear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear: 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in th' unequal strife, 
The haplos poet flounders on thro' life, 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd, 
And tied each muse that glorious once inspir'd, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected I 
Head, even resentment, for his injur'd page, 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage 

So. by some hedge, the generous steed deceas'd, 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; 



burns' poems. 1 

By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm-shelter' d haven of eternal rest ! 

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up : 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, 
They only wonder " some folks" do not starve. 
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 
And thinks tiie mallard a sadVorthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
And just conclude, that " fools are fortune's care." 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. 

1 dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ! 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencaim, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd at noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 
Oh ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! 
Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown, 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down I 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path, 
Give energy to life, and sooth his latest breath 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death ! 



170 burns' poems. 



LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF 
GLENCAIRN. 

Thb wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

ta the -no's departing beam 
Looard on tin- fading yellow wood* 
That wav'd o'er Lugar'a winding stream : 

tb a craigy steep a bard, 
Laden \ v itli yean and meikle pain, 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 
\\ bom death bad all untimely taVn. 

i ! It an'd bim to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down wi' years; 
Hia locks were bleached white wf time, 

Hia boary cheek waa wel wi' tears; 
And aa he touch'd his trembling harp, 
And a^ be tun'd hia doleful sang 
id-. l:tnnii t iii_r thro 1 the caves, 
tea alang. 

1 birds, that faintly sing 
The reliqnea of the vernal quire! 
Ye woods, that ahed on a' the winds 
The hononra of the aged year! 

A few short mouth-, and glad and gay, 

kgain y-'ll charm the car and ee; 
But nought in all revolving time 
Can gladness bring again to me. 

" I am a beading, a f _ r ed tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hold of earth is gane : 
if a mine shall ereet thespring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; 



burns' poems. 171 

But I maun lie before the storm, 
And ithers plant them in my room. 

" I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

" And last, (the sum of a' my griefs !) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flower amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay ; 
In weary being now I pine, 

Far a' the life of life is dead, 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of wo and wild depair ! 
Awake, resound thy latest lay, 

Then sleep in silence evermair! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. 

" In poverty's low barren vale, 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round; 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song, 

Became alike thy fostering care. 



rz BURNS' POEMS. 

" O ! why has worth so short a date, 
Wink- villains ripen gray with time .' 

Must thou, the noble, genrous, great, 
Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime! 

Why did I live to see that dl 

A day to nit' so full of wo ! 
< ) ! had I met the mortal shaft 
Which laid my benefactor 1' w ! 

'• The bridegro >m m i bride 

The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has hci-n; 

The mother may forget the child 

That BmUee Bae sweetly on her knee; 

Hut I'd remember thee, Glencairn, 
And a* that thou hast done for i 



L I N 

SE.NT To Sill JOHN WHXTHfOO&O OF W'lHTKroolU), BART. 

with i - pomr. 

Thou, who thy hon inr ae thy ' od rerertt, 

Who, save thy n ■ '>, nought earthly 

fear'st ; 
To thee thi> rotive of fe ring I impart, 
The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 
The friend thou ralued'st, I the patron lov'd ; 
•th, his honour, all the world approvd. 
We'll mourn till we too go BB he has ^one, 
And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown. 



burns' poems. 173 

TAM O' SHANTER, 

A TALE. 



Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke. — Gawin Douglas. 



When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearin late, 
And folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bonsin at the nappy, 
And getting fou and unco happy, 
We think nae on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gatherin her brows like gatherin storm, 
Nursin her wrath to keep it warm, 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shunter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Aula Ayr, whom ne'er a town surpasses 
For honest men and bonny lasses.) 

Oh, Tarn ! hadst thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 
That ilka melder wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roarin fou on ; 
That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 



174 BURNS' POEMS. 

She prophesied that, late or soon, 
Thou wad be round deep drown'd in Doon; 
< >r catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Ail'iirm/s anld hannted kirk. 

Ah, -ruth' dames ! it gars mo greet, 
To think bow iiioiiv counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen'd sage advises. 
The husband free the wife de0pii 

But to our tale : Ae market-nighty 
'rum had got planted unco right , 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming Bwats that drank divinely, 

J )h n hi/, 
I ! Is ancient, trusty, drouth? crony ; 
I'n in lo'ed him like a very brither ; 
They bad been fon for weeks thegfther. 
The night dreve on wi' sangs and clatter; 
And aye the ale was growin better ; 
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious, 
Wi favours si cret, sweet, and precious; 
The souter tauld his queerest stories; 
The landlord'- laugh was ready chorus: 
The storm without might rairand rustle, 
Tarn didna mind the storm a whistle. 

1 . mad to see a man sae happy, 
B»< a drown'd himsel 1 amang the nappy; 
As bees flee name wi' lades o treasure, 

The minutes wing*d their way wi' pleasure: 
Kings may he blest, hut Tarn was glorious, 
1 ■ r a' the ills o' life victorious ! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
Von seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; 

Or like the snow-falls in the river, 

A moment white— then melts for ever ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 175 

Or like the borealis race, 

That flit ere you can point their place ; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form 

Evanishing amid the storm. — 

Nae man can tether time or tide ; 

The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ! 

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 

And sic a night ho taks the road in, 

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd : 
That night a child might understand, 
The deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles hauding fast his gude blue bonnet ; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
Whiles glow'ririg round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloicay was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunter's fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. — 



170 BUMS 1 POEMS. 

Before him Doon pours all his floods; 

The doabling storm roars through the woods; 

Tin; lightnings Bash from pole t«» pole ; 

\' ;ir ami more n.-ar tin- thunder* roll ; 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 

kirh-Ailuirm/ Beem'd in a hi< ■• 

Thro' ilka bore the beams were ginseng j 
And lond resounded mirth and (lancing, — 

Inspiring hold John Barleueoml 
w ii it dangers thou canst make u> snort ! 
Wi 1 tippenny \w Fear oae ''\il : 
Wi' osauabae well race tin- devil '.— 

swats sae ream'd in TammUft noddle, 
Fair plaj . Ii-- car*d oae deiis a bodle. 
Hut Mag, u stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by tin- heel and hand admonith'd, 
Ethe Miitur'd forward on tin- light; 
Ami, wow! '/'nil saw an aneo sight I 
is and 9 itches in a dance ; 
itillou brent new frae Prone*, 
But bornpi] -. and reels, 

Put life and mettle in their heele. 
A winnock-bunker in the east, 
There -at auld Nick in shape "' I 
i /Ii- tyke, black, u r riin, and : 
_:>• them inn- rge : 

He screVd the pipes and gart them skirl, 
Til! root" ami rafters a' did dirL — 
Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shawM tin- dead in their last dresses; 

And by some «Je\ ili~ii cantrip .-leiirht, 

Each in his cauld hand held a light. — 

By which heroic Tam was able 

To note upon the haly table, 

A murderer's hanes in ^lhhet-airns ; 

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 



BURNS' TOEMS. 177 

A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his' last gasp his gap did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red rusted; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross' d, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her dud dies to the wark, 
And linkit at it in her sark ! 

Now Tarn, O Tarn ! had thae been queans, 
A' plump and strappin' in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white se'enteen bunder linen ! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush o' gude blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies! 

But wither' d beldams, auld and droll, 
Bigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lowping and flinging on a crummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tarn kenn'd what was what fu] brawlie, 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! 



178 BURNS' POBMfc 

For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And pensh'd mony a bonnie boat. 
.\ud Bhook l >: i i 1 1 1 mackle corn and bear, 

And kept the country aide in fear;) 

lit r entry sark, o' Paisley barn, 
Thai white a lassie she bad worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was \ auntie — 
Ah.' little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 

That sark she coil for her wee .\fiiutif, 

w i twa pnnd Scots, (twas a' ber riches,) 
W'inl ever grac'd a dance of witchesl 

Hut here my muse her wing maun cour; 
Bic flights are far beyond her power j 

v Nannie lap and f: 
i \ simple jade she was and Strang.) 
And bow Tarn stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
Ami thought hi* very een enrich'd : 

Even Satan '_ r l"W*rd and fidg*d fa' fain, 
And hotch'd and Mew wi' might and main: 

Till f. - . ii" anitber, 

Tam tint hi- r. ftSOH a' tin J 

An I roars out, " Weel done, < ntiy-sark!" 

And in en instant a' was dark : 
And scarcely bad In' Maggie rallied, 
When nut the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bias out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail" their byke ; 
As open pnssie'fl mortal foes, 
When, pop! Bhi starts before their nose; 

• r runs the market-crowd, 
When " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud ; 

runs, the witches folk W, 
WT moms an eldritch skreech and hollow. 

Ah, Tarn! ah, Tam! thou'lt get thyfairin! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! 



burns' poems. 

In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
Kate soon will be a waefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost Meg, 
And win the key stane* of the brig; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they darena cross, 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
Tbe fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behnufher aingrey tail: 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump, 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
Remember Tarn o' Shunter's mare. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 

Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ! 
May never pity sooth thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

* It is a well-known fact, that witches, or any evil spirits, 
have no power to follow a poor wight any further than the 
middle of the next running stream. — It may he proper like- 
wise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls 
in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, 
there is much more hazard in turning: back. 

n2 



180 burns' poems. 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 

The bitter little that of life remains : 

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft, as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
T'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. 



ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGH- 
SHIRE, WITH BAYS. 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 

Unfolds her tender mantle green, 
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 

Or tunes Eolian strains between : 

While Summer, with a matron grace, 
Eetreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 

By Tweed erects his aged head, 
And sees, with self-approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fed : 



burns' poems. 181 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or, sweeping, wild, a waste of" snows : 

So long, sweet Poet of the year, 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



ON THE LATE 



CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS 
THROUGH SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you, taking notes, 

And faith, he'll prent it ! 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 

Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 

O' stature short, but genius bright, 

That's he, mark weel — 
And wow ! he has an unco sleight 

O' cauk and keel. 

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* 
Or kirk deserted by its riggin, 

* Fide his Antiquities of Scotland. 



BUKNS' POEMS. 



It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 
Some eldritch part, 

Wi' deils, they say, L — d save's ! colleaguin 
At some black art. — 



Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or cham'er, 

Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamor, 

And you deep-read in hell's black grammar, 

Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight b es. 

It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fied ! 
But now he's quat the spurtle blade, 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And ta'en the— Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 



He has a fouth o' auld nic-nackets ; 
Rusty aim caps and jinglin jacketst 
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont gude ; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 

Before the Flood. 



Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubal-Cain's fire-shool and fender ; 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 



t Vide his Treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapons* 



BURNS' POEMS. 183 

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg 
The cut of Adam's phillibeg ; 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail gullie. 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Gude fellows wi' him, 
And port j Oport ! shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see hinr! 

Now by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose ! — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd tak the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, Shame fa' thee. 



TO MISS CRUICKSHANKS, 

A VERY YOUNG LADY, 

Written on the Blank Leaf of a Book, presented 
to her oy the Author. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming on thy early May, 
In ever may'st thou, lovely fiow'r, 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r! 
Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights, 
Taint thee with untimely blights ! 



I burns' poems. 

Never, never reptile thief 

Riot on thy virgin leaf! 

Nor even Sol too fiercely view 

Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! 

May's thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem; 
Till some evening, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm, 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And every bird thy requiem sings; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed thy dying honours round, 
And resign to parent earth, 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 



ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, 

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, Esq. 

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR 
FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew, 

The morning rose may blow : 
Butcold successivenoontideblasts 

May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smiled ; 
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguiled. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 
That nature finest strung : 

So Isabella's heart was form'd, 
And so that heart was wrung. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone, 
Can heal the wound he gave : 

Can point the brimful grief- worn eyes 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 
And fear no withering blast ; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER.* 
TO THE NOBLE DUKE OE ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I know, your noble ear 

Wo ne'er assails in vain ! 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams 

In flying summer pride, 
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly-jumping glow'rin trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 



* Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and 
beautiful ; but their effect is much impaired by the want of 
trees and shrubs. 



186 burns' poems. 

If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 
I'm scorching up so shallow, 

They're left the whitening stanes amang, 
In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Poet Burns came by, 
That to a bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Ev'n as I was he shor'd me; 
But had I in my glory been, 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't mysel, 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Wad then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, 

And bonnie spreading bushes; 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Eeturn you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 



burns' poems. 187 

The robin, pensive autumn cheer, 
In all her locks of yellow : 

This too, a covert shall ensure, 

To shield them from the storm; 
And coward maukin sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 

To weave his crown o' flow'rs : 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat, 

From prone descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty idle care ; 
The flowers shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heaven to graee, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain grey ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees, 
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 

Hoarse swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-bendingin the pool, 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 
Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest, 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 



i BURNS' POEMS. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band, 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land! 
So may, thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

To social flowing glasses, 
The grace be — " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses!'' 



SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL 

IN LOCH-TURIT, A WILD SCENE AMONG THE 
HILLS OF OUGHTERTYRE. 

Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
Forme your wat'ry haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below ; 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 



The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

In his breast no pity dwells, 

Strong necessity compels, 

But man, to whom alone is giv'n 

A ray direct from pitying Heav'n, 

Glories in his heart nuraane — 

And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage liquid plains, 
Only known to wancl'ring swains, 
"Where the inossy riv'let strays, 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might, 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all hispoWrs you scorn; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and other springs; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR 
OF THE INN AT KENMURE, TATMOUTH. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 
Till famed Breadalbane, opens to my view, — 
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides. 
The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample sides ; 



190 burns' poems. 

Th' outstretching lake, embossom'd 'mong the hills, 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills; 
The Tay, meandering sweet in infant pride, 
The palace rising on its verdant side ; 
The lawns wood-fringed in Nature's native taste; 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ; 
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream ; 
The village glittering in the noontide beam — 
****** 

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 

Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell: 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods; 

Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods — 

****** 

Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre, 
And look through Nature with creative fire ; 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 
Find balm to sooth her bitter rankling wounds : 
Here heart-struck Grief might heavnward stretch 

her scan, 
And injured Worth forget and pardon man. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYEB.S, NEAR LOCK-NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods, 

The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 

"Where thro' a shapeless breach his stream resounds, 

As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 

As deep-recoiling surges foam below, 

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, 

And viewless Echo's ear astonish'd rends. 



burns' poems. 191 

Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless showers, 
The hoary cavern, wide surrounding lowers, 
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still below the horrid cauldron boils — 



ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

BORN UNDER PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES 
OP FAMILY DISTRESS. 

Sweet floweret, pledge o' meikle love, 

And ward o' niony a pray'r, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae, helpless, sweet, and fair. 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill, on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the sheltering tree, 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gies the rain to pour, 

And wings the blast to biaw, 
Protect thee frae the driving show'r, 

The bitter frost and snaw ! 

May He, the friend of wo and want. 

Who heals life's various stounds, 
Protect and guard the mother plant, 

And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she fiourish'd, rooted fast, 

Fair on the summer morn ; 
Now feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unshelter'd and forlorn. 



192 burns' poems. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 
Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! 

And from thee many a parent stem 
Arise to deck our land. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET.* 
AULD NEEBOUR, 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-f arrant, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt you flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair ; 
For my puir, silly rymin' clatter 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle, 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld grey hairs. 

But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae"negleckit : 
And gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit, 

Be haint wha like. 

* This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, published 
at Kilmarnock, 1789. 



burns' poems. 193 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 

Rivin the words tae gar them clink ; 

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, 

WI' jads or masons ; 
And whyles, but aye owre late, I think, 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commend me to the Bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin' clink, 
The devil-haet. that I sud ban, 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin'; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

And while ought's there, 
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

And fash nae rnair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough and raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud tae the Muse, my dainty Davie : 
The warl' may play you monie a shavie ; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae puir, 
Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



LINES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH 
LORD DAER. 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprekled up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 

I've been at drucken writers' feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, 
Where mighty Squireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer — an earl's son, 

Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
And sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

But oh! For Hogarth's magic pow'r! 
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glow'r, 

And how he star'd and stammer'd, 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks, 
An' stumpin' on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 



I sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
An' at his lordship steal't a look 

Like some portentous omen ; 



burns' poems. 195 

Except good-sense and social glee, 
An' (what surpris'd me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the symptoms o' the great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The feint a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another; 
Nae honest wortliy man need care, 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG 
NAMED ECHO. 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng 

Your heavy loss deplore; 
Now half-extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring, screeching things around, 

Scream your discordant joys ; 
Now half your din of tuneless sound 

With Echo silent lies. 



196 burns' poems. 

INSCRIPTION TO THE MEMORY 
OF FERGUSSON. 

HERE LIES ROBERT FERttUSSON, POET. 

Horn, September 5, 1755 — Died, October 16, 1774. 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 
" No storied urn nor animated bust," 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. 

When Nature her great masterpiece design'd, 
And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth : 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net : 
The caput mortuum of gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights and squires ; 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave designs, 
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes the Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 



BURNS' POEMS. 197 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good ; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er, 
Half-jest, she try'cl one curious labour more. 
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter ; 
Such as the lightest breath of air might scatter • 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we, 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thing, and christens it— a poet. 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
When blest to-day unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being form'd t' amuse his graver friends, 
Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage ends : 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

Eut honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one I claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful Muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landmen on Life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd Wisdom's hard-wrung boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them depend, 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend 5" 



198 BUKNS' POEMS. 

Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 

Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 

Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 

(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 

Who make poor will do wait upon I should — 

We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good? 

Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 

God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 

But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, 

Heaven's attribute distinguished — to bestow ! 

Whose arms of love would grasp the human race ; 

Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace; 

Friend of inn life, true patron of my rhymes ! 

Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 

Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, 

Backward, abas'h'd to ask thy friendly aid ? 

I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 

I crave thy friendship at thy kind command : 

But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 

Heavens ! should the branded character be mine ! 

Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, 

Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 

Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 

Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit ! 

Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 

Pity the best of words should be but wind ! 

So, to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends, 

But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 

In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, 

They dun benevolence with shameless front; 

Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays, 

They persecute you all your future days ! 

Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 

My horny fist assume the plough again ; 

The piebald jacket let me patch once more ; 

On eighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before. 

Though, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift, 

I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : 



BURNS' POEMS. 199 

That plac'd "by thee upon the wish'd-for height, "l 
Where, Man and Nature fairer in her sight, > 

My muse may imp her wing for some subliner flight.* j 



FRAGMENT, 

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. J. C. FOX. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their white; 
How genius, ? th' illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction — 
I sing ; if these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 
I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a Patron, whose name and whose glory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky 

hits; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right ; 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the Muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L— d, what is man ! for as simple he looks, 
Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks ; 



* This is our Poet's first epistle to Graham of Fintra. It is 
not equal to the second ; but it contains too much of the cha- 
racteristic vigour of its author to he suppressed. A little more 
knowledge of natural history, or of chemistry, was wanted to 
enable him to execute the original conception correctly. 



200 BURNS' POEMS. 

With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours, 
That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its 

neighbours : 
Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you know 

him? 
Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will shew 

him. 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 
One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd him ; 
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
And think human nature they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t' other ? there's more in the 

wind, 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find. 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, 
In the make of that wonderful creature call'd Man, 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two different shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Ellisland, 2\st Oct. 1780. 

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye, 

And then ve'll do. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

The ill-thief Maw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tald mysel, by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter ; 
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, 

And bade nae better. 

But, aiblins, honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tired o' sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body.* 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turnd'd a gauger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain me, 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 



Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Man'g sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 
They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ; 
Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is, 
I need nae vaunt, 



* Mr. Heron, author of the History of Scotland, and of va- 
rious other works. 



202 BUKNS' POEMS. 

But I'll sned besoms — thaw saugh woodies, 
Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers ? 

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair ; 
Wha docs the utmost that he can, 

'Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 
To make a happy fireside clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuckie, 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 
" I'm yours for aye, 

Robert Burns. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



PROLOGUE 

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, ON 
NEW-YEAR-DAY EVENING. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city 

That queen's it o'er our taste — the more's the pity : 

Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam ? 

Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 

But not for panegyric I appear, 

I come to wish you all a good new year ! 

Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, 

Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 

The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say, 

" You're one year older thislmportant day ;" 

If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, 

But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question ; 

And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink, 

He bade me on you press this one word — " think !" 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush'd with hope and 
spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way : 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him ; 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow. 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important — now ! 



204 BURNS' POEMS. 

To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
And offers, bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours ; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



ON THE LATE MISS BUKNET OP MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious Death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ? 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves ; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, 
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! 

Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd; 
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth, 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 

And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth, 
And not a muse in honest grief bewail ? 



BURNS' POEMS. 205 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres ; 

But, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou left us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care : 

So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

An Occasional Address spoken by Miss Fontenelle 
on her Benefit- Night. 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; 
While quacks of state must each produce his plan, 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man; 
Amid this mighty fuss, just let me mention, 
The Bights of Woman merit some attention. 

First in the sexes' intermix'd connexion, 
One sacred Right of Woman is 'protection. — 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fail before the blasts of fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. — 

Our second Right — but needless here to caution, 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum — 
There was, indeed, in far less polish' d days, 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways ; 



200 . burns' poems. 

Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, 
Nay even thus invade a lady's quiet — 
Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are fled ; 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well-bred — 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit wit nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration ! 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love. — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ; 
Let Majesty your first attention summon, 
Ah! ca ira! the Majesty of Woman! 



ADDRESS, 

Spoken by Miss Fontenelle, on her Benefit-Night, 
December 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Dumfries. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better : 
So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, 
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed; 
And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. 
" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, 
" I know your bent— these are no laughing times : 



burns' poems. 207 

Can you— but Miss, I own I have ray fears, 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears — 
With laden sighs, and solemn rounded sentence, 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance ; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, "* 
Waving on high the desolating brand, > 

Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?" j 

I could no more — askance the creature eyeing, 
B'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying? 
I'll laugh, that's poz — nay more the world shall know 

it; 
And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet ! 

Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, 
That Misery's another word for Grief: 
I also think — so may I be a bride ! — 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive— 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam witch ! 
Say you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measurs't in desperate thought — a rope — thy neck — ■ 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap: 
Would'st thou be cured, thou silly, moping elf? 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



208 burns' poems. 

VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS. 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the gift; tho' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 



So may no ruffian-feeling in thy I 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears, 
As modest want the tale of wo reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A 
COPY OF HIS POEMS. 

PRESENTED TO A LADY, WHOM HE HAD OFTEN 
CELEBRATED UNDER THE NAME OF CHLORIS. 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 
Chill came the tempest's lower ; 

(iind ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 
Dip nip a fairer flow'r). 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is left behind; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store, 

The comforts of the mind! 

Thine is the self-approving glow, 

On conscious honour's part; 
And, dearest gift of Heaven below, 

Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refin'd of sense and taste, 

With every muse to rove : 
And doubly were the poet blest 

These joys could he improve. 



COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS TO 
MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE. 

Reyered defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a nama once respected, 
A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, 

But now 'tis despis'd and neglected. 

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wanderer may well claim a sigh, 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 



210 burns' poems. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, 
The Queen, and the rest of the gentry; 

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; 
Their title's avow'd by my country. 

But why of this epocha make such a fuss, 



But loyalty truce ! we're on dangerous ground, 
Who knows how the fashions may alter 1 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, 

And ushers the long dreary night ; 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, 

Your course to the latest is bright. 



THE FOLLOWING POEM 

WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT 
HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CONTI- 
NUE IT, FREE OF EXPENSE. 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, 
And faith, to me, 'twas really new ! 



BURNS 7 POEMS. 2 

How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted? 

This niony a day I've grain' d and gaunted, 

To ken what French mischief was brewin ; 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin : 

That viledoup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or how the collingshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks : 

Or if the Swede, before he halt, 

Would play anither Charles the Twalt : 

If Denmark, any body spak o't ; 

Or Poland, who had now the tack o't : 

How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin : 

How libbet Italy was singin: 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were sayin or takin aught amiss : 

Or how our merry lads at hame, 

In Britain's court kept up the game : 

How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him ! 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, 

Or galkit Charlie got his nieve in : 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin : 

How cesses, stents, and fees we're rax'd, 

Or if bare a — s yet were tax'd : 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls; 

If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, 

Was threshin still at hizzies' tails, 

Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, 

And no a perfect kintra cooser. 

A' this and mair I never heard of; 

And but for you I might despair'd of. 

So gratefu', back your news I send you, 

And pray a' guid things may attend you! 

Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. 
p 2 



212 burns' poems. 



POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

Hail, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd! 
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd 
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers; 
And, och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, 

'Mid a' thy favours! 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
While loud, the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage : 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballads, Maro's catches : 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches 

O' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share 

A rival place ? 



burns' poems. 213 

Yes! there is ane; a Scottish eallan ! 
There's ane ! come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou need na jouk hehint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever! 
The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tamtallan, 

But thou's for ever. 

Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines : 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel ; 

Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell; 

Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchin love, 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 
The sternest move. 



SKETCH.— NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again : 
I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 



!14 BURNS' POEMS. 

Adjust the unimpair'd machine, 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 
In vain assail him with their prayer ; 
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 
]S T or makes the hour one moment less. 
Will you (the Major's with the hounds, 
The happy tenants share his rounds ; 
Colia's fair Rachel's care to-day, 
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 
From housewife cares a minute borrow — 
— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow- 
And join with me in moralizing, 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 
First, what did yesternight deliver ? 
" Another year is gone for ever." 
And what is this day's strong suggestion? 
" The passing moment's all we rest on!" 
Rest on !— for what? what do we here ? 
Or why regard the passing year ? 
Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 
Add to our date one minute more? 
A few days may— a few years must — 
Repose us in the silent dust. 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 
Yes — all such reasonings are amiss! 
The voice of nature loudly cries, 
And many a message from the skies, 
That something in us never dies : 
That on this frail, uncertain state, 
Hang matters of eternal weight; 
That future life, in worlds unknown, 
Must take its hue from this alone ; 
Whether as heavenly glory bright, 
Or dark as misery's woful night, — 
Since then, my honour'd, first of friends, 
On this poor being all depends, 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Let us th' important now employ, 
And live as those that never die/ 
Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, 
Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse, 
A sight pale envy to convulse,) 
Others now claim your chief regard ; 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE ON THE LATE MR. W. 
SMELLIE, 

AUTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL HIS- 
TORY, AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARIAN AND 
ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. 

To Crochallan came 
The old coek'd hat, the grey surtout, the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving-night, 
His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd ; 
A head, for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd ; 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



POETICAL INSCRIPTION 

FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, AT KER- 
ROUGHTRY, THE SEAT OF MR. HERON ', WRIT- 
TEN IN SUMMER, 1795. 

Thou of an independent mind, 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd ; 

Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere, "1 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, > 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 3 



BURNS' POEMS. 



ANSWER TO A MANDATE 

SENT BY THE SURVEYOR OF TAXES, TO EACH 
FARMER, ORDERING HIM TO SEND A SIGNED 
LIST OF HIS HORSES, SERVANTS, WHEEL-CAR- 
RIAGES, &C. AND WHETHER HE WAS A MAR- 
RIED MAN OR A BACHELOR, AND WHAT 
CHILDREN THEY HAD. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list, 
My horses, servants, carts, and graith, 
To which I'm free to tak my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew before a pettle; 
My hand-a-fore, a guid auld has-been, 
And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen ; 
My hand-a-hin, a guid brown filly, 
Wha aft has born me safe frae Killie, 
And your auld borough mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime : 
My fur-a-hin a guid grey beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd : 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-mn'd red-wud Kiiburnie blastie, 
Forbye a cowte, of cowtes the wale, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An' he be spar'd to be a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 

Wheel carriages I hae but few, 
Three carts, and twa are feckly new; 
An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spindle, 
And my auld mither brunt the trundle. 



burns' poems. 

For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin and for noise; 
A gadsman ane, a thresher t'other, 
Wee Davoc bauds the nowte in t'other. 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly, 
And often labour them completely ; 
And aye on Sundays duly nightly, 
I on the questions tairge them tightly, 
Till faith wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg,) 
He'll screed you off effectual calling 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

I've nane in female servant station, 
Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation ! 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
For weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
Heaven sent me ane more than I wanted; 
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddie in her face, 
Enough of aught ye like but grace. 

But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady, 
I've said enough for her already, 
And if ye tax her or her mither, 
By the"L — d ye'se get them a' thegither ! 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm taking ; 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle : 
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit ! 
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. 
This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, 
The day and date as under noted; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic 

Robert Burns 



218 burns' poems. 

TO A YOUNG LADY, 

MISS JESSY L , DUMFRIES, 

With Books which the Bard presented her. 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 

And with them take the poet's prayer; 

That fate may in her fairest page 

With every kindliest, best presage 

Of future bliss, enrol thy name; 

With native worth, and spotless fame, 

And wakeful caution still aware 

Of ill — bat chief, man's felon snare ; 

All blameless joys on earth we find, 

And all the treasures of the mind — 

These be thy guardian and reward ; 

So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard. 

EXTEMPORE, 

TO MR. S**E, OX REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, 
AFTER HAVING BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF 
COMPANY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY; 17TH 
DECEMBER, 1705. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
And cook'ry the first in the nation; 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



TO MR. S**E, WITH A PRESENT OF A 
DOZEN OF PORTER. 
O, had the malt thy strength of mind. 

Or hops the flavour of thy wit ! 
'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for S**e were fit. 



burns' toems. 219 

POEM 

ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OP 
EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 179(3. 

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin ! jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches. 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, 
That one pound one, I sairly want it : 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted, 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loun! he gat me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't, 



S20 burns' poems. 

My hale and weel I'll take a care o't 
A tentier way : 

Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't, 
For ance and aye. 



SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE 
HAD OFFENDED. 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more astray ;) 
Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah, why should I such scenes outlive ! 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ? 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



POEM ON LIFE, 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER, 
DUMFRIES, 1796". 

My honour'd Colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the Poet's weal ; 
Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty warld were it, 
Would pain and care, and sickness spare it ; 
And fortune favour worth and merit 
As they deserve : 



burns' poems. 

(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; 
Syne wha wad starve ?) 

Dame Life, tho' fiction ont may trick her, 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her, 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still, 
Aye wavering like the willow wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagole, auld Satan, 
Watches, like baudrans by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a cl'aut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, 

He's off like fire. 

Ah ! Nick ! ah Nick ! it is na fair, 
First shewing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft : 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' hell's damn'd waft. 

Poor man, the flie aft bizzes by, 

And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 

Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, 

And hellish pleasure; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon heels o'er gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle, 
As dangling in the wind he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 



22 BURNS* POEMS. 

But lest you think I am uncivil, 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! 

Amen ! amen ! 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. 

My eurse upon thy venom' d stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; 
And through my lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes, 
Our neighbour's sympathy maj* ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan; 
But thee— thou hell o' a' diseases, — 

Aye mocks our groan ! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle, 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

Of a' the num'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stools, 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thour bear'st the gree. 



burns' poems. 223 

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' misery yell, 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu' raw, 
Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' ! 

O thou grim mischief-making chiel, 
That gars the notes of discord squeel, 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel, 

In gore a shoe-thick : — 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Tooth-ache. 



HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 

Thou, wha in the heav'ns dost dwell, 
Wha, as it pleases best thysel', 

Sends ane to heav'n and ten to hell, 
A' for thy glory, 

And no for ony guid or ill 

They've done afore thee. 

1 bless and praise thy matchless might, 
Whan thousands thou hast left in night, 
That I am here afore thy sight, 

For gifts an' grace, 
A burnin and a shinin light, 

To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation, 
That I should get such exaltation ? 
I, wha deserve sic just damnation, 

For broken laws, 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation, 

Thro' Adam's cause. 



J24 burns' poems. 

When frae my mither's womb I fell, 
Thou might hae plunged me in hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 

In burning lake, 
Whare damned Devils roar and yell, 

Chain'd to a staik. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample, 

To show thy grace is great and ample ; 

I'm here a pillar in thy temple, 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an' example 

To a' thy flock. 

O L — d thou kens what zeal I bear, 
When drinkers drink, and swearers swear, 
And singin there, and dancin here, 

Wi' great an' sma' ; 
For I am keepit by thy fear, 

Free frae them a'. 

But yet, O L — d ! confess I must, 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust, 
And sometimes too, wi* warldly trust, 

Vile self gets in ; 
But thou remembers we are dust, 

Defil'd in sin. 



Besides, I farther maun allow, 

Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow ; 

But L — d, that Friday I was fou ; 

When I came near her, 
Or else, thou kens, thy servant time 

Wad ne'er hae steer'd her. 

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn, 
Beset thy servant e'en and mora, 



BURNS' POEMS. 225 

Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 
'Cause he's sae gifted; 

If sae, thy han' niaun e'en be borne, 
Until thou lift it. 

L — d bless thy chosen in this place, 
For here thou hast a chosen race ; 
But G-d confound their stubborn face, 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace, 

An' public shame. 

I, — d, mind G— n H n's deserts, 

He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes, 
He has sae monie takin arts, 

Wi' grit and sma', 
Frae G — d's ain priest the people's hearts 

He steals awa\ 

And when we chasten'd him therefore, 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, 
As set the warld all in a roar 

O' laughin at us ; 
Curse thou his basket and his store, 

Kail an' potatoes. 

L — d, hear my earnest cry an' pray'r, 

Against that presbytery o' Ayr ; 

Thy strong right hand, L — d make it bare, 

TJpo' their heads, 
L — d, weigh it down, and dinna spare, 

For their misdeeds. 

O L— d, my G-d, that glib-tongu'd A n. 

My vera heart an' saul are quakin, 
To think how we stood sweatin, shakin, 
And p — d wi' dread, 
Q 



226 burns' poems. 

While lie wi' hangin lip and snakin, 
Held up his head. 

L — d, in the day of vengeance try hhn, 
L— d, visit them wha did employ him, 
A a' pass not in thy mercy by 'em, 

Nor hear their pray'r ; 
But, for thy people's sake, destroy 'em, 

And dinna spare. 

But, Lord, remember me and mine 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

Excell'd by nane, 
And a' the glory shall be thine, 

Amen, amen. 

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. 

Here Holy Willie's sair-worn clay 

Takes up its last abode; 
His saul has ta'en some other way, 

I fear, the left-hand road. 

Stop ! there he is as sure's a gun, 

Poor silly body, see him ; 
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun, 

Observe wha's standin wi' him. 

Your brunstane devilship, I see, 
Has got him there before ye ; 

But baud your nine-tail cat a wee, 
Till ance you've heard my story. 

Your pity I will not implore, 

For pity ye hae nane ; 
Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er, 

And mercy's day is gaen. 



burns' poems. 227 

But hear me, Sir, Deil as ye are, 

Look something to your credit ; 
A coof like him wad stain your name. 

If it were kent ye did it. 



THE KIRK'S ALARM,* 

A SATIRE. 

Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 

There's a heretic blast has been blawn in the wast; 
That what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac,f Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack, 

To strike evil-doers wi' terror ; 
To join faith and sense upon any pretence, 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, Town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare, 

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, 

And orator Bob| is its ruin. 

D'ryrnple mild,§ D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's 
like a child, 

And your life like the new-driven snaw, 
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye, 

For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 

Rumble John,|| Rumble John, mount the steps wi' a 
groan, 
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 

* This Poem was written a short time after the publication 
of Mr. 21 'Gill's Essays. 

tDr. M'Gill. iR— tA— k— n. § Mr. D e. || Mr. R-ss-11 

Q2 



228 BURNS' POEMS. 

Then lug out the ladle, deal brimstone like adle, 
And roar ev'ry note of the daran'd. 

Simper James,* Simper James, leave the fair Killie 
dames, 

There's a liolier chace in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead, 

For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawney,t Singet Sawney, are ye herding the 
penny, 

Unconscious what evils await ; 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, 

For the foul Thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld,£ Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld, 

A tod meikle waur than the Clerk ; 
Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death, 

And if ye canna bite, ye maun bark. 

Davie Bluster,^ Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do 
muster, 

The eorps is so nice of recruits . 
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast, 

If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamie Goose,|| Jamie Goose, ye hae made but toom 
roose, 

In hunting the wicked Lieutenant ; 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d's haly ark, 

He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrang pin in't. 

Poet Willie,1[ Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley, 
Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit ; 



♦ Mr. M«K— jr. t Mr. M y. ; Mr. A— d. 

5 Mr. G 1 of Ochiltree. || Mr. Y g of Cummock. 

f Mr. P— b— s of Ayr. 



BURNS' TOEMS. 229 

O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid astride, 
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t. 

Andro Gouk,* Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book, 
And the book not the waur, let me tell ye ! 

Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig, 
And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie,t Barr Steenie, what mean ye ? what 
mean ye ? 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 
Ye may hae some pretence to bavins and sense, 

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irwin side,! Irwin side, wi' your turkey-cock pride, 

Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will allow, 

ind your friends they dare grant you nae mair. 

Muirland Jock,§ Muirland Jock, when the L — d 
makes a rock 

To crush Common Sense for her sins, 
If ill-manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit 

To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will, || Holy Will, there was wit in your skull, 
When ye pilfer' d the alms o' the poor ; 

The timmer is scant, when ye're ta'en for a saunt, 
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns, 

Ammunition ye never can need ; 
Your hearts are" the stuff, will be powther enough, 

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 



* Dr. A. M 11. + Mr. S n Y— g of Barr. 

t Mr. S h of Galston. § Mr . S— d. || An Elder in M- 



230 burns' poems. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skeining 
turns, 

Why desert ye your auld native shire? 
Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, 

She cou'd ca' us nae waur than we are. 



LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, 

KILMARNOCK, 
ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 

O Goudie ! terror o' *,he Whigs, 
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs; 
Sour bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin looks back 
Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin, glow'rin Superstition, 

Waes me ! she's in a sad condition ; 

Fly, bring Black- Jock, her state physician, 

To see her w-ter ; 
Alas ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple 
But now she's got an unco ripple, 
Haste, efie her name up i' the chapel, 

Nigh unto death; 
See how she fetches at the thrapple, 

An' gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 
Gaen in a galloping consumption, 
Not a' the quacks wi' a' their gumption, 
Will ever mend her, 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption, 
Death soon will end her. 

Tis you and Taylor* are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief; 
But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave, 

A toom tar-barrel 
An' twa red peats wad send relief, 

An' end the quarrel. 



THE TWA HERDS.f 

O a' ye pious, godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes, 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks 

About the dykes ? 

The twa best Herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast, 
These five-and-twenty simmers past, 

O! dooltotell, 
Hae had a bitter, black out-cast 

Atween themsel. 

O, M y, man, and wordy R 11, 

How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how new-light Herds will whistle, 
And think it fine ! 



* Dr. Taylor, of Norwich. 
f This piece was among the first of our Author's produc- 
tions which he submitted to the public ; and was occasioned 
by a dispute between two Clergymen, near Kilmarnock. 



232 burls' poems. 

The L— d's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, 
Sin' I hae min\ 

O, Sirs ! whae'er wad hae expeckit, 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 

Ye wha were ne'er hy laird respeckit ! 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' M y's flock could rank, 

Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
iS T ae poison'd sour Arminian stank, 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, ay clear, they drank, 

O sic a feast ! 

The thuminart wil'-cat, brock, and tod, 
Weel kenn'd his voice thro' a' the wood, 
He sniell'd their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 

What Herd like R 11 te'lld his tale, 

His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale, 

At the first sight. 



He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 

Or nobly fling the gospel club, 

And new-light Herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin, 
Could shak them o'er the burning dub ; 

Or heave them in. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Sic twa ! — O, do I live to see't ! 
Sic famous twa should disagreet, 
An' names, like villain, hypocrite, 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
While new-light Herds, wi' laughin spite 

Say neither's liein' ! 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 

There's D n deep, and P s shaul, 

But chiefly thou, apostle A d, 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset, 
There's scarce a new Herd that we get, 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set, 

I winna name, 
I hope frae heavn to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

D e has been lang our fae, 

M' 11 has wrought us meikle wae, 

And that cur'd rascal ca'd M e, 

And baith the S s, 

That aft hae made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld W w lang has hatch'd mischief, 

We thought ay death wad bring relief, 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chiel wha'll soundly buff our beef; 

I meikle dread him. 

And monie a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 



234 burns' poems 

Forbye turn-coats amang oursel, 
There S — h for ane, 

I doubt lie's but a grey-nick quill, 
An' that ye'll fin'. 

O ! a' ye flocks, o'er a' the hills, 
By mosses, meadows, moors, ami fells, 
Come join your counsel and your skills, 

To cowe the lairds, 
And get the brutes the power themsels, 

To choose their Herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And Learning in a woody dance, 
And that fell cur ca'd < iommon Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and D'rymple's eloquence, 

M' 11 's close, nervous excellence, 

M- Q— 's pathetic, manly sense, 

And guid M' h, 

Wi' S — h, wha thro' the heart can glance, 

.May a' pack atf. 



OX SENSIBILITY. 

TO MY DEAR AND MUCH-HONOURED FRIEND, 
MRS. DUN LOP, OF DUNLOP. 

Sensibility, how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; 

But distress with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too well ! 



BURNS POEMS. 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 
Blooming in the sunny ray ; 

Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 
See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, 

Telling o'er his little joys ; 
Hapless bird ! a prey the surest, 

To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 
Finer feelings can bestow; 

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



SONNET, 

WRITTEN ON THE 2oTH OF JANUARY, 1793, THE 
BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A 
THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough ; 

Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain; 

See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 
At thy blithe carol clears his furrow' d brow. 

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, 

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies ! 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth could never give or take away ! 



230 BURNS' POEMS. 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care ; 
The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee 
I'll share. 



TO THE 

GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE, 

IN ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE WHICH SHE HAD 
SENT THE AUTHOR. 
GUIDWIFE, 

I mind it weel in early date, 

When I was beardless, young, and blate, 

And first could thresh the barn ; 
Or lmud a yokin at the pleugh; 
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn ; 
When first aniang the yellow corn 

A man I reckon'd was, 
And vvi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing and clearing 
The titherstooked raw, 
WV claivers, an' haivers, 
Wearing the day awa. 

E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r, 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast, 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake 
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn' d the weeder-clips aside, 

An' spar'd the symbol dear ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 237 

No nation, no station, 

My envy ne'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 

I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right an' wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain ; 
Till on that har'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core, 

She rous'd the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky e'en 
That gart my heart-strings tingle ; 
I fired, inspired, 

At every kindling keek, 
But bashing, and dashing, 
I feared ay to speak. 

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter-days, 

An' we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, 
The saul o' life, the heav'n below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, 

Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected with her. 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men, 
That slight the lovely dears; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 

For you nae bred to barn or byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 
Thanks to you for your line : 



!38 BURNS' POEMS. 

The marled plaid ye kindly spare. 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the Nine. 
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap, 

Douce hinging o'er my curple. 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple, 

Fareweel then, lang heal then, 

An' plenty be your fa' : 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca\ 
March. 1787. R. BURNS. 



TO J. RANKEN, 

ON HIS WRITING TO THE AUTHOR THAT A GIRL 
WAS WITH CHILD BY HIM. 

I am a keeper of the law 

In some sma' points, altho' not a'; 

Some people tell me gin I fa', 

Ae way or ither, 
The breaking of a point, tho' sma', 

Breaks a' thegither. 

I hae been in for't ance or twice, 
Aud winna say, o'er far for thrice, 
Yet never met with that surprise 

That broke iry rest, 
But now a rumour's like to rise, 

A whaup's i' the nest. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

ADDRESS 

TO AN ILLEGITIMATE CHILD. 

Thott's welcome wean, mischanter fa' me, 
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy, 
Shall ever danton me, or awe me,' 

My sweet wee lady, 
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me 

Tit-ta or daddy. 

Wee image of my bonnie Betty, 
I fatherly will kiss an' daut thee, 
As dear an' near my heart I set thee, 

Wi' as gude will 
As a' the priests had seen me get thee 

That's out o' h-U. 

What tho' they ca' me fornicator : 
And tease my name in kintry-clatter : 
The mair they tauk I'm kent the better, 

E'en let them clash; 
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter 

To gie ane fash. 

Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint, 

My funny toil is now a' tint, 

Sin' thou came to the warl' asklent, 

Which fools may scoff at ; 
In my last plack thy part's be in't — 

The better half o't. 

An' if thou be what I wad hae thee, 
An' tak the counsel I sail gie thee, 
A lovin father I'll be to thee, 

If thou be spar'd ; 



!40 burns' poems. 

Thro' a' thy childish years I'll e'e thee, 
An' think't weel war'd. 

Gude grant that thou may ay inherit 
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit, 
And thy poor worthless daddy's spirit, 

Without his failins, 
'Twill please me mair to hear an' see't, 

Than stocket mailens. 



TO A TAILOR, 

TX ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE WHICH HE HAD 
SENT THE AUTHOR. 

What ails ye now, ye lousie b— h. 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? 
Losh, man ! hae mercy wi' your natch, 

Your bodkin's bauld, 
I did nae suffer half sae much 

Frae Daddie Auld. 

What tho' at times when I grow crouse, 
I gie their wames a random pouse, 
Is that enough for you to souse 

Your servant sae ? 
Gae mind your seam, ye prick the louse, 

An' jag the flae. 

King David, o' poetic brief, 
Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief 
As fill'd his after life wi' grief 

An' bloody rants, 
An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief 

O' lang syne saunts. 



burns' poems. 

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants, 
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants, 
I'll gie auld eleven Clooty's haunts 

An unco slip yet,] 
An' snugly git amang the saunts, 

At Davie's hip yet. 

But fegs, the Session says I maun 

Gae fa' upo' anither plan, 

Than garren lasses cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre body, 
And sairly thole their mither's ban, 

Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on, to tell for sport, 
How I did with the Session sort — 
Auld Clinkum at the inner port 

Cry'd three times " Robin ! 
Come hither lad, an' answer for't, 

Ye're blam'd forjobbin." 

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on, 
An' snoov'd awa' before the Session — 
I made an open, fair confession, 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, 

Fell foul o' me. 

A fornicator loun he call'd me, 

An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me ; 

I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me, 

" But what the matter," 
Quo' I, " I fear unless ye geld me, 

I'll ne'er be better." 

" Geld you," quo' he, " and whatfore no, 
If that your right hand, leg, or toe. 



242 burns' poems. 

Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe, 
You shou'd remember 

To cut it aff, an' whatfore no 

Your dearest member !" 

" Na, na," quo' I, " I'm no for that, 
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't, 
I'd rather suffer for my faut, 

A hearty flewit, 
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't ! 

Tho' I should rue it. 

" Or gin ye like to end the bother, 
To please us a', I've just ae ither, 
When next wi' yon lass I forgather, 

Whate'er betide it, 
I'll frankly gie her't a' thegither, 

An' let her guide it." 

But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst ava, 
An' therefore, Tarn, when that I saw, 
I said " Guid night," and cam awa', 

An' left the Session ; 
I saw they were resolved a' 

On my oppression. 



LAMENT 

OF A. MOTHER FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierc'd my darling's heart : 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 



burns' poems. 243 

By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 

The mother-linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish'd young ; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 

Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 

Now, fond I bare my breast, 
O, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love, at rest : 



SONNET, 



ON THE DEATH OP ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. OP 
GLENRIDDEL, APRIL, 1794. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood — no more ! 
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul : 
Thou young-ey'd Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, 

More welcome wereto me grim Winter's wildest roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes 1 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : 
How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 

That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where 
Riddle lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe! 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier : 
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, 

Is in his " narrow house'' for ever darkly low, 
r 2 



244 burns' poems. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



VERSES 

ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave ; 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air, 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train*; 

Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd wellf, 
Ormould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane}:; 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, 
The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky; 

The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 
And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, 

In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 



* The King's Park, at Holyrood House, 
t St. Anthony's Well. i St. Anthony's Chapel. 



burns' poems. 245 

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, 
Reclin'd that banner, erst in -fields unfurl'd, 

That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 
And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world : — 

" My patriot Son fills an untimely grave !" 

With accents wild, and lifted arms she cried — 

" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save. 
Low lies the heart that swell'd withhonest pride ! 

" A weeping country joins a widow's tear, 
The helpless poor "mix with the orphan's cry; 

And drooping hearts surround their patron's bier, 
And grateful science heaves the heart-felt sigh. 

" I saw my sons resume their ancient fire : 
I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ; 

But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 
Relentless fate has laid this guardian low. 

" My patriot fall?, but shall he lie unsung, 

While empty greatness saves a worthless name! 

No; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue. 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

"And I will join a mother's tender cares, 
Thro' future times to make his virtue last, 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs !" — 
She said, and vanisti'd with the sweeping blast. 



TO J S T -T, GL — NC— E. 

Auld comrade dear and brither sinner, 
How's a' the folk about Gl — nc — r? 
How do you this blae eastlin wind, 
That's like to blaw a body blind ? 



246 burns' poems. 

For me my faculties are frozen, 
My dearest member nearly dozen'd : 
I've sent you here by Johnnie Simson, 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on; 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling, 
An' Reid, to common sense appealing, 
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled, 
An' meikle Greek and Latin mangled, 
Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd, 
An' in the depth of science mir'd, 
To common sense they now appeal, 
What wives an' wabsters see an' feel ; 
But, hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly, 
Peruse them and return them quickly ; 
For now I'm grown sae cursed douce, 
I pray and ponder butt the house, 
My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin, 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston; 
Till by an' by, if I haud on, 
I'll grunt a real Gospel groan : 
Already I begin to try it, 
To cast my een up like a pyet, 
When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 
Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore : 
Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning an' a shining light. 

My heart- warm love to guid auld Glen, 
The ace an' wale of honest men : 
When bending down with auld grey hairs, 
Beneath the load of years and cares, 
May he who made him still support him, 
An' views beyond the grave comfort him. 
His worthy fam'ly far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear. 

My auld school-fellow, Preacher Willie, 
The manly tar, my mason Billie, 



BURNS' POEMS. 

An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy ; 

If he's a parent, lass or boy, 

May he be dad, an' Meg the mither, 

Just five-an' -forty years thegither ! 

An' no forgetting wabster Charlie, 

I'm tauld he offers very fairly. 

An' L — d remember singing Sannock, 

Wf hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock. 

An' next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy, 

Since she is 'fitted to her fancy; 

An' her kind stars hae airted till her 

A guid chiel wi' a pickle siller. 

My kindest, best respects I sen' it, 

To cousin Kate an' sister Janet ; 

Tell them frae me, wi' chiels be cautious, 

For, faith, they'll ablins fin' them fashious : 

To grant a heart is fairly civil, 

But to grant a maidenhead's the devil! 

An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel, 

May guardian angels tak a spell, 

An' steer you seven miles south o' hell : 

But first, before you see heav'n's glory, 

May ye get monie a merry story, 

Monie a laugh, and monie a drink, 

An' ay enough o' needfu' clink. 

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you, 
For my sake this I beg it o' you, 
Assist poor Simson a' ye can, 
Ye' 11 fin' him just an honest man ; 
Sae I conclude an' quat my chanter, 
Your's, saint or sinner, 

Rob the Ranter. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



ON A YOUNG LADY, 

RESIDING ON THE BANKS OF THE SMALL RIVER 
DEVON, IN CLACKMANNANSHIRE, BUT WHOSE 
INFANT YEARS WERE SPENT IN AYRSHIRE. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, 
With green-spreading bushes, and flow'rs blooming 
fair : 

But the bonniest flow'r on the banks of the Devon 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushing flower, 
In the gay, rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 

O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn! 

And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, 
And England triumphant display her proud rose ; 

A fairer than either adorns the green vallies 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 



VERSES 



WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF HIS 
POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, 
THEN MARRIED. 

Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear, 
Sweet early object of my youthful vows, 



burns' poems. 249 

{ Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, 
Friendship ! — 'tis all cold duty now allows : — 

And when you read the simple, artless rhymes, 
One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more, 

Who distant burns in flaming, torrid climes, 
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



EXTEMPORE, 

WRITTEN IN ANSWER TO A CARD FROM AN INTI- 
MATE OF BURNS, INVITING HIM TO SPEND AN 
HOUR AT A TAVERN. 

The King's most humble servant I, 

Can scarcely spare a minute ; 
But I'll be wi' you by and bye, 

Or else the devil's in it. 



EXTEMPORE, 

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK. 

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live 
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give, 
Deal freedom's sacred treasures free as air, 
Till slave and despot be but things that were. 



LINES 

ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR. 

Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times, 
Been, Jeany Scott, as thou art, 
The bravest heart on English ground, 
Had yielded like a coward. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, 



ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. 

IIkkk Bonter Will in death does sleep, 

To li-ll, if he's cane thither, 
Batso, rie bin thy tear to keep.' 

Ji.'ll band it wee! thegither. 



ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Dr.uow thir stanes lie Jamie's bancs ; 

() Death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin h-tch 

Into thy dark dominion! 



ON WEE JOHNNY. 

IIIC JACBT WEE JOHNNY. 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know, 
That Death has niurder'd Johnny ! 

And here his body lies f'u' low 

For saul he ne'er had ony. 



TOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 

O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 
Draw near with pious reverence and attend ! 

Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 
The tender father, and the generous friend ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 251 

The pitying heart that felt for human wo ! 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride ! 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe, 

" For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side."* 



FOR ROBERT AIKEN, Esq. 

Know thou, O stranger to the fame 
Of this much-lov'd much honour'd name ! 
(For none that knew him need he told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



FOR GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 

The poor man weeps— here Gavin sleeps, 
Whom canting wretches blam'd ; 

But with such as he, where'er he be, 
May I be saved or d d! 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near, 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a Bard of rustic song, 

Who, noteless steals the crowds among, 

That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here heave a sigh. 



Ml BURNS' POEMS. 

Js there a man, whose judgment clear 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild a> the wave, 
Here pause— and thro 1 the starting tear, 
Survey thifi grave. 

The poor inhabitant below 

w ;i- quick to learn, and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

.i //// tofterJuunB) 
Bui thoughtless tollies laid bin low, 

And Btain'd his name! 

Reader, atfc od— whether thy soul 

i fancy's tli'_ r lii- beyond the pole, 
( >r darkling '_ r rulis this earthly hole 

in low pursuit. 
Know, prudent, cautious, a if '-mitral, 
I- wisdom'i root. 



ON JOHN DOVE, 

INNKI.l.l'KK, MALCilLINE. 

Here Ilea Johnny Pidseon, 
What was liis religion ? 
Whae'er desires to ken, 

To some other war? 
Maun follow the carl, 
For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane 1 

Strong ale was ablution — 
Small beer persecution, 

A dram was memento mori; 
But a full flowing bowl 
\\'u> the saving his soul, 

And port was celestial glory. 



burns' poems. 



ON A FRIEND. 



An honest man here lies at rest 
As e'er God with his image blest ; 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth ; 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform 'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. 

Lament him Mauchline husbands a', 

He aften did assist ye ; 
For had ye staid whole weeks awa, 

Your wives they ne'er had miss'd ye. 
Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press 

To school in bands thegither, 
tread ye lightly on this grass, — 

Perhaps he was your father. 



THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. 

Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife ! 
Who has no will, but by her high permission ; 
"Who has not sixpence, but in her possession : 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
Who dreads a eurtain lecture worse than hell ! 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart; 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b— h, 



254 burns' poems. 



THE HIGHLAND WELCOME. 

COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURNS, TO THE HASTES 
(>K T11K HOUSE, ON TAKING LEAVE AT A PLACE IN 
THE HIGHLANDS, WHERE HE HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY 

ENTERTAIN LI). 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 

A time that surely shall come; 
In In <iv'n itself, I'll ask no more, 

Thanjust a Highland welcome. 



GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

< ) Thou, who kindly dost provide 
For every creature's want! 

- i bee, ( rod of Nature wide, 
For all thy goodness lent : 

And, if it please thee, Heavenly Guide, 

May never worse he sent ; 
But, whether granted or denied, 

Lord, hless us with content ! 
Amen. 



ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE. 

The devil got notice that Grose was a dying, 

So whip ! at the summons, old Satan came flying ; 

But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay 

moaning, 
And saw each bed-post with its hurden a-groaning, 
Astonish'd ! confounded ! cry'd Satan, " By G-d ! 
I'll want 'im, ere I take such a damnable load!" 



burns' poems. 



SONGS AND BALLADS. 



THE JOLLY BEGGAKS. 
A Cantata. 

RECITATITO. 

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird, 
Or, wavering, like the bauckie* bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast : 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, 
And infant frosts begin to bite. 

In hoary cranreugh drest ; 
Ae night, at e'en, a merry core 

O' ran die gangrel bodies, 
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, 
To drink their orra duddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The vera girdle rang. 

First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weei braced wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae and blankets warm, 

She blinket on her sodger ; 
And aye he gies the touzie drab 

The tither skelpin kiss, 
While she held up her greedy gab, 

Just like an aumis-dish : 

* The old Scottish name for a bat. 



256 BURNS' POEMS. 

Ilk smack still, did crack still, 
.fust like a cadger's wimp, 

Then staggering, and swaggering, 
lie roar'il this ditty up— 



Tunb— "Soldier's Joy." 

I a u a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, 
And Bhow my cuts and scars wherever I come; 
This here was tor a wench, and that other in a trench, 
When w elcoming the Trench at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

My 'premiership I past where my leader breath'd his 

l.i.-f . 

When the bloody dye was cast on the heights of 

A brum ; 
I served out my trade when the gallant game was 

play'd. 
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. 
Lul de daudle, &c. 

I lastly was withCnrtis, among the floating batt'riee, 

And there I left for witaeai an arm and a limb ; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de dandle, &c. 

And now, tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm and 

leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my 

callet, 
As when I used in scarlet to follow the drum, 

Lai de daudle, kc. 



burns' poems. 257 

What tho' with hoary locks I must stand the winter 

shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for a home ; 
Whe the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk 

Aboon the chorus' roar; 
While frighted rattons backward leuk, 

And seek the benmost bore ; 
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirl'd out encore ! 
But up arose the martial's chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. 



Tune — " Soldier Laddie" 

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade '■> 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
So the sword I forsook for the sake of the church; 
He ventur'd the soul, and risked the body, 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &e. 



268 BURNS* POEMS. 

Fall soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

But the peace it reduced me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at Cunningham fair, 
His rags regimental they fluttered sae gaudy, 
My heart it rejoiced at my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

And now I have lived — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass 

steady, 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

KKCITATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew, in the nenk, 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 
They mind't na whu the chorus took, 

Between themselves they were sae bizzy; 
At length, wi' drink and courting dizzy, 

He stuiter'd up and made a face; 
Then turn'd and laid a smack on Grizzy, 

Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. 



Tune— "Auld Sir Symon." 

SlB Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 
Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; 

He's there but "apprentice I trow, 
But I am a fool by profession. 



burns' poems. 

My grannie she bought me a beuk, 
And I held awa to the school; 

I fear I rny talent misteuk ; 
But what will ye hae of a fool ? 

For drink I wad venture my neck • 
A kizzie's the hauf o' my craft ; 

But what could ye other expect 
Of ane that's avowedly daft ? 

I ance was tied up like a stirk, 
For civilly swearing and quaffing ; 

I ance was abus'd i' the kirk, 
For towzling a lass i' my daffin. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer; 

There's even, I'm tauld, i' the court, 
A tumbler ca'd the Premier. 

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 
Maks faces to tickle the mob ; 

He rails at our mountebank squad ; 
It's rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion I'll tell, 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry, 

The chiel that's a fool for hinisel'*, 
Guid L— d, is far dafter than I. 

RECITATIVO 

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling 
For monie a pursie she had hook'd, 
And had in mony a well been duck'd ; 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waef u' woodie ! 



200 burns' poems. 

Wi' sighs and sabs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Ilighlandman. 



Tune—" O, an'you were dead, Gudeman.' 

A Highland lad my love was born, 
The Lawlund laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was t'aitbfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Ilighlandman. 



Sing, hey, my braw John Ilighlandman ! 
Sing, ho, my braw John Highlandman ! 
There' not a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John Ilighlandman. 

Wi' his philibeg and tartan plaid, 
And guae claj more down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant braw John Ilighlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And lived like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lallaud face he feared nane, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 

But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast: 



burns' poems. 261 

My curse upon them every one, 
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

And now a widow I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy scraper wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappin limb and gaucy middle 

(He reach'd nae higher) 
Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle, 

And blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward ee, 
He croon'd his gamut, ane, twa, three, 
Then, in an Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set aff, wi' Alligretto glee, 

His giga solo. 

AIR. 

Tune—'' Whistle o'er the Lave o't." 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi' me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 



I am a fiddler to my trade, 
And a' the tunes that e'er I play'c 



•202 BURNS' POEMS. 

The sweetest still to wife and maid, 
Was whistle owre the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we*se he there, 

And < > ' sae cicely's we will fare ; 

We'll boose about, till daddie Care 

whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, Sec. 

Sae merrfly's the banes well pyke, 
And son oorsels aboot the dyke, 
And at oar leisure, when we like, 
\\ e'll whistle owre the hive o't. 
I am, Sec. 

Bni bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, 

And while 1 kittle hair on thairms, 
Hunger, caold, and a' sic harm-, 
whistle own; the love o't. 
I am, Sec. 



RKCITATIVO. 

Ilcr charms had struck a sturdy Caird, 

As tatrscraper ; 

He tak- the fiddler by the heard, 

And draws a rusty rapier — 
Ilr swot by a' was swearing worth, 
it him like a pliver, 

wad from that time forth 
Relinquish her for ever. 

istly ee, poor Tweedle-dee 
bis hunkers bended, 
And prayd for grace, wi' rueful face, 

And sue the quarrel ended. 
But tho' his little heart did grieve 
When round the tinker press'd her, 



burns' poems. 263 

He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve. 
When thus the Caird address'd her : 



Tune — " Clout the Cauldron." 

My bonny lass, I work in brass, 

A tinker is my station ; 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation; 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many a uoble squadron ; 
But vain they search'd, when off I mareh'd 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've ta'en the gold, &c. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and caprin, 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron ; 
And by that stowp, my faith and houp, 

And by tha't dear Kilbagie,* 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er wat my craigie. 

And by that stowp, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

The Caird prevail'd — th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man o' spunk, 



* A peculiar sort of whisky so called ; a great favourite 
with Poosie-Nansie's club. 



264 BUKNtf' POEMS. 

Wish'd unison between the pair, 
Anil made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft, 

That pluy'd a dame a shavie, 
Tlir fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 

Behint the cdiieken-cavie, 
Hi r lord, a wight o' Homer's craft,* 

Tho' limping wi' the marie, 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like Daft, 

And shor'd them Dainty Dane 

To boot that night. 

He was a care-defying blade 

Aj ever Baerhrf listed, 
TIid' Portnne bbJi opon bim laid, 

ili~ heart the ever rniaa'd it. 
He had oae wish, but— to be f?lad, 

Nor want— but when he thirsted ; 
lit- hated nought but— to be sad, 

And thus the Mase snggeatad 

ng that night. 

Ant. 

Tl'.ve— " For a' that, and iC that. yy 

I am a bard of no regard, 

Wi' gentlefolks, and a' that : 
But Homer-like, the glowran byke 

Frae town to town I draw that. 



For a' that, and a' that ; 
And twice as meikle's a' that j 

* Homer is allowed to be the oldest ballad 6ingeron record. 



BURNS' POEMS. Zba 

I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 
I've wife enough for a' that. 

I never drank the Muses' stank, 

Castalia's burn, and a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly reams, 

My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, &c. 

Great love I bear to a' the fair, 

Their humble slave, and a' that; 
But lordly will, I hold it still 

A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, &c. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

Wi' mutual love, and a' that ; 
But for how lang the flie may stang, 

Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c. 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, 

They've ta'en me in, and a' that; 
But clear your decks, and " Here's the sex!" 
I like the jads for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that ; 

And twice as meikle's a' that, 
My dearest blude to do them gude, 
They're welcome till't for a' that. 

RECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with the thunder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth; 
They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd their duds, 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their iowan drouth. 



2C6 BURNS' POEMS. 

Then owrc again the jovial thrang 

The poet did request, 
To lowse his pack, and wale a sang, 

A ballad o' the best; 

He rising, rejoicing, 
Between his twa Deborahs^ 

Looks round him, and found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 

AIR. 

Tine — "Jolly Mortoh, fill your Glasses. 1 

■ smoking howl before us. 
Mi'ilv our jovial ragged ring; 
Round and round tak<: up the chorus, 
.\ud in raptures let us sing: 



A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowardi were erected) 

Churches built to please the priest. 

What is title ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

Tis no matter how or where ! 
A fig, &c. 

With the ready trick and fable, 
Round we wander all the day; 

And at night, in barn or stable, 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 
A fig, &c. 



BURNS POEMS. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro' the country lighter rove ? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 
A fig, Sue. 

Life is all a variorum, 
"We regard not how it goes ; 

Let them cant about decorum 
Who have characters to lose. 
A fig, &c. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and callets! 

One and all cry out, Amen! 
A fig, &c. 



THE RIGS O' BARLEY. 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

Till 'tween the late and early j 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed 

To see me through the barley. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly : 
I set her down wi' right good will, 

Amang the rigs o' "barley : 
I kent her heart was a' my ain ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again 

Amang the rigs o' barley : 



i BURNS 'POEMS. 

I lock'd her in ray fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely : 
My blessings on that happy piace, 

Amang tie rigs o' barley ! 
But by tlif moon and stars sae bright, 

Tbat shone that bom sae clearly, 
She aye slmll bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I hae been blythe wi' comradV 
I hae been merry drinking ; 

J hae beenjoyfu' gath'rin gear, 
I hae been happy thinking : 

But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 
Though three times doubled fairly, 

Tbat happy night was worth them a, 
Amang the rigs & barley. 



Corn rii;9, and barley ri'_ r s 
And corn riu r -> are bonnie : 

111 ne'er forget that happy night, 
Amang the ri^s wi' Annie. 



SONG. 

COMPOSED IN AUGUST. 

Tune — u I hurl a horse, I Iiad nnc mair." 

Now westlin winds, and slaugb.t'ring guns, 

Bring Autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock ."-prints, on whirring wiDgs, 

Amang the blooming heather : 
Now wa\ ing grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night, 

To muse upon my charmer. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains : 
Through lofty groves the cushat roves, 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush. 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine^ 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion ! 

But, Peggy dear, the evening's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow • 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading-green and yellow : 
Come let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And ev'ry happy creature. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal showers to budding flowers, 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

My fair, and lovely charmer ! 



270 burns' toems. 

So NO. 
Tune— "My Namri 

Behind yon hills where Lugar .' 

'Mang moon and mosses many. ()' 
The wintry bud the day baa cloed, 

And I'll awa to Nannie. < >. 
The westling wind blaws loud and ibill ; 

The nignrs baith mirk and rain; 
But I !l get my plaid, and oul I'll ei al, 

And owre the bills to Nam 

onie's charming, swi 

Nae artfu' wiles to win >• 
May ill In fa' the flattering I 

That wad beguile my Nam 
Hi r face is fair, her beart I 

\< Bpoth bs as she's bonni 
The '>]n-n!!iL r gowan, wet w I 

Nae purer is than Nannie, I K 

A country lad is my degree, 

And few there be that ken me, ; 
But what care I how few t 

I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. 
My riches a's my penny-fee, 

And I maun guide it cannie, O ; 
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 

My thoughts are a' my Nannie, 0. 

Our auld gudeman delights to view 

Bis Bheep and kye thrive bonnie, ; 
But I'm as blythe th I pleugfa, 

And has nae cure but Nannie. O. 






BURNS* POEMS. 271 

Come weel, come wo, I care na by, 
I'll tak what Heaven will send me, O ; 

Nae ither care in life liae I, 
But live, and love my Nannie, O. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 

A FRAGMENT. 

There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 
In every hour that passes, O : 

What signifies the life o' man, 
And 'twere na for the lasses, O. 

Green grow the rashes, O ; 

Green grow the rashes, O ; 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spent, 

Were spent amang the lasses, O. 

The warly race may riches chace, 
And riches still may fly them, O ; 

And though at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 
Green grow, &c. 

But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie, O, 

And warly cares, and warly men, 
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O ! 

Green grow, &c. 

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O ; 

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 
He dearly lo'ed the lasses, O. 

Green grow, See. 



272 Hl'KNs' POEMS. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O; 

Hrr 'prentice ban' she tried on man, 

And then she made the lasses, U. 

Green grow, &c. 



SONG. 
T i in r.— " .lull inn/ 1 Grey I i recks." 

Again rejoicing Nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 

All freshly Bteep'd in morning dews. 

And mann I -till on Heme dote, 
And bear t h»* scorn that's in her ee? 

Por it's Jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk, 
And it winna let a body be! 

In vain to me the cowslips Maw, 

In vain to Die the vi'lets spring; 

In \ain to me the glen or shaw, 
The mavis and me iinthwhite sing. 

And maun I still, Sec. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi'joy the tentie seedsman stalks; 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 

And maun I still, <kc. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 

Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest but I. 

And maun I still, Set. 






BURNS 5 POEMS. 2/3 

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorlands whistles shill, 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And maun I still, &c. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, 

And mounts and sings, on fluttering wings, 
A wae-worn ghaist I hameward glide, 
And maun I still, &c. 

Come Winter, with thine angry howl, 

And raging bend the naked tree ; 
Thy gloom will sooth my cheerless soul, 

When Nature all is sad like me ! 
And maun I still, &c. 



SONG. 

Tune—" Boslin Castle." 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain : 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure, 
While here I wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn, 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave. 
I think upon the stormy wave, 



J74 Butts' POEAIS. 

Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far From the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

Tis not the surging billows' roar, 
•Tia not that fatal deadly sliore; 
Thp' death in ev'ry Bhape appear, 
The wretched have do more to feari 
Hut round lay In-art the ties are bound, 
That heart transpiere'd with many a wound; 
These bleed afresh, those ties f tear, 
To leave the bonnie banks of Apr. 

well, old Coilafs bills ami dales, 
Hrr !i athy mOOTS and Winding 

here wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappt l<>\ es! 
Farewell, my nriends! farewell my foes! 
M> peace with these, my love with those — 
The bursting tears my ln-art i\r> 
Pan ■••■' U the bonnie banks of Ayr! 



80NG. 
Tune—*' GildetiayS 

thee, Kli/.a, I lnuM i 
And from my native shops : 

The cruel Fates between us throw 
\ boundless ocean's roar; 

indless oceans roaring wide, 

They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee; 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We pari to meet no more ! 



burns' poems. 275 

But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine that latest sigh! 



THE FAREWELL 

TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE, 
TARBOLTON. 

Tune — " Good Night, and Joy be wi' you a' V* 

Adieu ! a heart-warm fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tye! 
Ye favour' d, ye enlightened few, 

Companions of my social joy ! 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba% 
With melting heart and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'. 

Oft have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful, festive night ; 
Oft, honour'd with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light : 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa'. 

May freedom, harmony, and love, 

Unite you in the grand design. 
Beneath th' omniscient Eye above, 

The glorious A rchitect divine! 
That you may keep th' unernng line, 

Still rising by the plummet' $ laic 
t 2 



270 BUB1TB 1 POEMS. 

Till order bright completely shine, 
Still be my pray'r when far awa'. 

.", farewell ! whose merits claim, 
Justly, that high* rear! 

I Ir-.f. • name, 

T i Masonry and v 

Bt, permit me here, 
When yearly ye assembl 

• with a ■ > or, 
To him, the Baud, thaVtfar atoaf. 



BONO. 



Prt pare my dt or fir, ilimi, to the 

fly* 



rchman am I for to rail and to write, 
itesman nor soldier 1 1 plot or to fight, 
.\ii sly man of business <•• ntrivinff a 
Tor a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care. 

I • envy, I give him liis bow ; 

it, tho' ever so low ; 

- • that are here, 
And a bottle like thia art- my glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother— his hone : 
itum per centum, the <-it with Ids purse; 
Bnt see you the crown how it waves in the air, 

There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly; 
I found that old Solomon prosed it fair, 
That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure fur all care. 



burns' poems. 277 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs. 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

' Life's cares they are comforts'* — a maxim laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him? that wore the black 

gown ; 
And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heaven of care. 



-A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge. 

Tli en fill up a bumper, and make it o'erfiow, 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and square, 
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 

Tune—" Katlierine Ogie." 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ; 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry : 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 
How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 

* Young's Night Thoughts. 



278 burxs' roEMS. 

As underneath their fragrant simile, 

I clasp'd bet to my bosom ! 
The golden boon, on sdigel-wings, 

Flew o'ear me and my dearie ; 

For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary! 

\\ T mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

i )ur parting was fn.' tender ; 
And, pfedging afl to meet again, 

v. i tore onrsels asunder ; 
Hut ob ! fel] death's untimely fi 

That nipt my il >wer 88e <arl\ ! 

Now green's the sod. and caula'e the elay, 
That wraps my Highland .Mary ! 

. pale now, those rosy tips, 
I afl nae kiss'd sa • fondly! 

>M (or aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me BBS kindly! 

And m »nldi ring eon In silent dost 

That heart that lo'ed DM dearly— 

• .1 within my bosom's core 
.Shall live my Highland .Mary .' 



ATJLD ROB MORRIS. 

TiiERK'sauld Rob Morris that wons in yon frlen, 

king O* gnid fellows and wale of auld men ; 

rowd in hi* coffers, he has owsen and kine, 
And ae Bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh a* the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She'.- sweel as the erlning amaag the new hay ; 

As blithe and as artless as the lamb on the lea, 
And dear to ray heart as the light to my e'e. 



burns' poems. 279 

But, oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddy has nought but a cot-house and yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed ; 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. 

had she but been of a lower degree, 

1 then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me ! 
O, how past descriving had then been my bliss, 
As now my distraction no words can express ! 



DUNCAN GRAY. 
Duxca.n Gray cam here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
On blithe yule-night when we were fou, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Maggie coost her head fu' heigh, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; 

Ha, ha the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd; 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, &e. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin'. 
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Slighted love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 



80 burns' poems. 

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he 
Par b haughty hiz/.ie die? 
She may go to— France for me ! 
Ha,] 

I low ir comes let doctors bell, 
Ha, he 

. as in- grew heal, 

Ha, h:i. .Ve. 

her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh -he bi 
And < ». her een, they >pak sic things! 

Ha, ha, &C. 

Duncan was a lad o- _. 
Ha, ! 

Ha,l 

a could na be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; 

Now t li. • \ ' p. • CrOOSe and canty haith ; 

Ha, ha, tin- wooing o'L 



GALLA WATER 

- braw, braw lad- on Yarrow 
That wander I mine heather: 

hut Yarrow braes, oor Bttrick u 
1 D match the lads O' Galla water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 

. them a' I lo'e him better; 
And I'll be bis, and he'll lie mine, 
The bonnic lad o' Galla water. 

Altho 1 his daddie was nae laird, 
And tho' I hue nae rncikle tocher; 



burns' poems. 281 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love, 
We'll tent our flocks by Galla water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure : 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
O that's thechiefest warld's treasure ! 



THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 
Tune—" The Mill, Mill, O." 
When wild wars deadly blast was blawn, 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 

And mony a widow mourning; 
I left the lines and tented field, 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor but honest soldier. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

A hand unstain'd wi' plunder; 
And for fair Scotia, hame again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy ; 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'cl the borraie glen, 

Where early life I sported; 
I pass'd the mill, and trysting-thorn, 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 



!«2 hukns 1'di:m<. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass. 

Sweet a> ymi hawthorn's I ■'.■■■ 
()! happy, happy iiias Ik* he, 

That's dearest to thy boson ! 
My pane is light. I've tar to 

And rain would be thy lodgi r : 

s'd in \ icing ana country nog — 

lake pity on a sodger ! 

3 B*d <>ii BHB, 

And lovelier grew than ever ; 
Quo 1 she, a Bodger ance I UVd, 

: liim snaU I oeveff : 
( >ur hnmble cot, and hamely fair, 

Ye freely shall partake it"; 
That gallanl badge, the dear reokiflYi. 

Ve're welcome for the sakj "t. 

i/.'d — she redden'd like u rose — 
Syne pale like ony lilly, 

- ink within my arms and cried, 

Art thou my ain dear \N" i 1 1 j » - .' 

1 J v Jliin who i and sky — 

By whom :.• 
I am the man ; and thna may ->till 

True- I 

Tin- wars are o'er, an I ['a e me baaae, 

And find thee >till true-hearted ! 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in I 

And uiair w>-'- • !:•■'. -r be patted. 
Quo' she, my grandsire left nie gowd, 

A inailcu pleniah'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly. 

For sold the merchant ploughs the main, 
The farmer ploughs the manor ; 



burns' poems. 283 



But glory is the sodger's prize, 
The sodger's wealth is honour : 

The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 
Nor count him as' a stranger, 

Remember he's his country's stay 
In day and hour of danger. 



MEG O' THE MILL. 

Tune — " O bonnie Lass will ye lie in a Barrack ? 

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
And ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a ciaut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady: 
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl : — 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving ; 
The laird did address her wi' matter more moving, 
A fine pacing-horse wi' a clear-chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that is fix'd on a mailen ! 
A tocher's nae word on a true lover's parle, 
But gi'e me my love, and a fig for the warl' ! 



Tune—" Logan water." 
Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ! 



284 BUKKS' POEMS. 

And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun, 
But now tliyflow'ry banks appear 
Like druinlie winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his fees, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month <>' May 

1 1 as made our bills and valleys gay ; 

The liinls rejoice in leafy bowers, 

The bees hum round the breathing flowers : 

Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye, 

And evening's tears are tears of joy j 

■ !. delightless, a' surreys, 
"While Willie*S tar frae Logan' braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 

Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
< >r wi' his song her can s beguile : 
l'.ut 1 wi' my Bweel nurslings here, 

mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass wiilowM mghts and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

O, wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate! 
As ye make many a fond heart mourn, 

lay it on your heads return! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tear-., the orphan's cry? 
But soon may peace bring happy days, 
And Willie haine to Logan braes ! 



burns' poems. 285 



THE LEA-RIG. 



When o'er the lilll the eastern star 

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo, 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field 

Return sae dowf and weary O, 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest grlen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie O. 
Alth'o' the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I were ne'er sae wearie O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, _ 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo ; 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey, 

It maks my heart sae cheery O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame ; 

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie, 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 



Hi Ll'KNS' TOEMS. 

Winter winds Mew loud and cauld at our parting, 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in ray e'e, 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers, 
How your dread howling a lover alarms! 
Wanken, ye breezes, row- gently ye billows, 
And wan my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

Hut. oh! it' he's faithless, and minds aa his .Nannie, 

Plow still between as, thoo wide-roaring main j 
.May I aever see it, may I never trow it, 

lint, dying, heliere that ray Willie's my ain. 

- wa 

Tim;- -'• R.hln Adair.* 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 

\\ here the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar; 

There would I weep my woes, 

- ek my losl repose, 
Till grief my eves should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 

s( of womankind! canst then declare, 

All thy fond plighted vows— fleeting as air ! 
To thy new lover hie, 

Laugh o*er thy perjury, 
Then in thy bosom try 

What peace is there ! 



WHISTLE, AND I'LL TOME TO YOU MY LAD. 

wm.-TLE, and I'll come to you, mv lad; 
whistle, and I'll come to you, my fad : 
Tho' lather and mither and a' should gae mad, 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 



burns' poems. 287 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, 
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
Syne up the back-style, and let nae body see, 
And come as ye were na comin to me, 
And come, &c. 
O whistle, &c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie ; 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, 
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me, 
Yet look, &c. 
O whistle, &e. 

Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whyles ye may lightly my beauty a wee i 
But court na anither, tho' j ok in' ye be, 
For fear that she whyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear, &c. 
O whistle, Sec. 



DAINTY DAYIE. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers 
And now comes in my happy hours, 
To wander wi my Davie. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe ! 

Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 
There I'll spend the day wi' you, 

My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie. 
Meet me, &c. 



288 BURNS' POEMS. 

When purple morning starts the hare, 

To Bteal upon her early fare, 
Then thro' the dews I will repair, 
To meet my faithfa' Davie, 
Meet me, &c 

When <lav, expiring in the west. 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
1 flee to his arms I lo'e hest, 

And that's my ain dear Davie. 

( IK-IMS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, 

Bonnie Davie, dainty Da\ie, 
There 1'il spend the day wi' you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 
Should anld acquaintance he forgot, 

And never brought to min' I 

Should anld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days & lang syne.' 



For anld lang syne, my dear, 

Por anld lang 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the hraes, 

And pu'd the gowans fine : 
But we've wander'd many a weary foot 

Sin auld lang syne. 

Fur auld, ice. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 

Frae morning sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd 

Sin auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught, 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 

And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup, 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 



BANNOCRBURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious vietorie ! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour — 
See the front o' battle lower ; 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Edward ! chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor-knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Traitor! coward! turn and flee! 



290 BURNS' POEMS. 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By our sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be— shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants full in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do, or die ! 



SONG. 

' C(C the Yoices to the Knoiccs.' 



Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
(V them whare the heather grows, 
Ca' them whare the burnie rowes, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Hark, the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang; 
Then a faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the yowes, &c. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
To tbe moon sae clearly. 
Ca' the yowes, <kc. 



BURNS' FOEMS. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 
Ca' the yowes, &c. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nought of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the yowes, &c. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the yowes, &c. 



SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A'. 
Tune—'- Onagh's Water-falW 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eye-brows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 
Her smiling sae wyling, 

Wad make a wretch forget his woe ; 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto those rosy lips to grow : 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw, 
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She "says she lo'es me best of a'. 



292 BURNS' POEMS. 

Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion/ 

"Wad make a saint forget the sky. 
Sac warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and gracefu' air ; 
Ilk feature— anld nature 

Declar'd that she could do nae mair : 
Her's are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law; 
And ay my < !hloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a' 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy .shew at sunny noon; 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve and rising moon 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her Bilver light the boughs amang; 
While felling, recalling, 

The amonroufl thrush concludes her san 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

To say thou lo'es me best of a'? 



LASSIE WT THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. 
TUNE — " Bothemurchus Bant," 



Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 

Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks ? 
Wilt thuu be my dearie O ? 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 

O wilt thou share its joys wi' ine, 
And say thou'lt be my dearie O? 
Lassie wi', &c. 

And when the welcome simmer-shower 
Has cheer' d ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi', &c. 

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way ; 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
Arid talk o' love, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi', &c. 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie O. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 

Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks ? 
Wilt thou be my dearie O ? 



FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that; 
The coward-slave, we pass him by, 

And dare be poor for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure, and a' that, 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 



291 burns' tokms. 

What tlio' on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin irrey, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their Bilks, and knaves their wine, 

A man's a man lor a' that; 
For a' that, ami a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that; 
An honest man, though e'ersae poor, 

Is king o' men lor a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie ea'd a lord, 

Wha stmN, and stares, and a' that ; 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 

lie's but a COOffor a' that; 
For a' that, and a' thai, 

His riband, star, and a' that, 

Tie- man of independent mind, 
II.' looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince ea!i make a belted knight, 

irqais, duke, and a' that ; 
But an bonest man's aboon his might, 
Quid faith In- mauna fa' that! 

For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray, that come it may, 

ne it will for a' that, 
When sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

Shall hear the gree, and a' that; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Its coming yet, for a' that, 
When man and man, the warld o'er, 

Bhall brothers be, and a' that. 



BURNS' POEMS. 
SONG. 

Tune—" Let me in this ae Night' 

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet ! 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit? 
For love has bound me, hand and foot, 
And I would fain he in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

O let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this ae night, 

O rise and let me in, jo. 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet ; 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
O let me in, &c. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
O let me in, Sec. 



HER ANSWER. 

O tell na me o' wind and rain ! 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ! 
Gae back the gate ye cam again, 
I winna let you in, jo. 



I tell you now this ae night, 
This ae, ae, ae night : 



296 burns' poems,. 

And ance for a' this ae night, 
I wimia let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer pours, 
Is nought to what poor she endures, 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 
I tell you now, vS:c. 

The .-weetest flower that deck'd the mead, 

dden like the vilest weed; 
Let Bimple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo. 

1 tell you now, &C. 

The bird that charm'd his summer-day, 
Is uow the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting, woman, say 
How aft her fitted the same, jo. 
I tell you now, ,vc 



CALEDONIA. 

Tun B — " J I it moms of Glen." 

Tn hi k groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume, 

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 
WT the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 
Where the blue-ben and gowan lurk lowly unseen : 

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, 
And cauld Caledonia's blait on the wave, 



BURNS' POEMS. 297 

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud 
palace, 
What are they ? — The haunt of the tyrant and 
slave ! 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, 
The brave Caledonian views with disdain ; 

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. 



SOiTO. 
Tune — " This is no my aim House" 



O this is no my ain lasssie, 

Fair tho' the lassie be ; 
O weel ken I my ain lassie, 

Kind love is in her ee. 

I see a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants, to me, the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, &c. 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, 
And lang has had my'heart in thrall ! 
And aye it charms my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, &c. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 

To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 

But gleg as light as lovers' een, 

When kind love is in the ee, 

O this is no, &c. 



298 BUKNS' rOK.M.S. 

It may 60eape the courtly sparks, 

It may escape the learned clerks; 

Bui vi . eel the watching lover marks 

The kind love that's in her ee. 

I » tin.- is 00, SCC. 



SCOTTISH BALLAD. 
Tunb — " Thr Lothian J. 

Hay a braw V v.n the lung glen, 

- nr \vi' hi> lo\e be did dea< 
1 - there wafl Oaething I hated like men, 

lieve me, believe me, 
The dence gae wi' m, to b 

k O 1 the darts in mv bonnie hlaek e'en. 
And VOwMfor my lo\e lie W8J dying: 

!. for .Iran, 
j 

The Lord fbrgie me for tying ! 

if the laird, 

And marriage aff-hand, w< re oil pro! 
I never loot on thai l . r cared, 

But thooght I might hae wanr offers, waur offers, 
But thought I might hue waur offers. 

But what wad ye think ?— in a fortnight or less, 

,1 tak hifl taste to true near her ! 
He np the lang loan to mv black cousin Bess, 

how, the jud ! I could bear her, could 
bear her, 
Guess ye how, thejad ! I could bear her. 

But a' the niest week a.-? I fretted wi' care, 
I gaed to the try* lock, 



BURNS' POEMS. 299 

And wha but my fine fickle lover was there, 
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 
I glow'rd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae Mm a blink, 

Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 
My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 
Gin she had recover'd her hearin, 

And how her new shoon fit her auld shackl't feet, 
But, heav'ns ! how he fell a swearin, a swearin, 
But, heav'ns ! how he fell a swearin, 

He begged, for GuYlesake ! I wad be his wife, 

Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow ; 
So e'en to preserve the poor body in fife, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



KEY FOB A LASS WI' A TOCHER. 

Tune — " Balinamona ora" 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms : 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 

CHORUS. 

Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey, for a 

lass wi' a tocher, 
Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher ; the nice yellow 

guineas for me. 



300 BURNS' POEMS. 

Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows, 
And withers the taster, the faster it grows ; 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes, 
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes. 
Then hey, .Vc. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest; 
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' < teoraie imprest, 
The langer ye hae them -the mair they're carest. 
Then hey, &c. 



BONG. 

• Hen 's a fu alth to them that's awa, htney.' 

Clioni B. 

a health to ane I lo'e dear, 

Here's B health to ane I lo'e dear ; 

Thou art Bweel as the Bmile when fond lovers meet, 
And soft as their parting tear — J< - 

Althit' thou maun never be mine, 

AJtho 1 even hope i- denied, 
"j'is Bweeter for tnee despairing. 

Than aught in the world beside— Jessy ! 
Here's u health, ice. 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 

tpeless, I muse on thy eharms, 
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
Por then I am lockt in thy arms— Jessy ! 

Here's a health, ice. 

I guess by the dear angel-smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling ee ; 
But why urge the tender confession, 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree— Jessy ! 
Here's a health, &c. 



BURNS' POEMS. 301 

THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 



Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the Birks of Aberfeldy ? 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend the lightsome days 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
The little birdies blithely sing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &e. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, See. 

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising weets wi' misty showers 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie, &c. 



302 BURNS' POEMS. 

BLITHE WAS SHE. 

chorus. 
BlTTHB, blithe and merry was she, 

Blithe was sh<; but and" ben; 
Blithe by the banks of Era, 

And blithe in Gflenturit glen. 

By Onghtertyre grows the aik, 
On Yarrow hanks, the birken shaw; 

Bat Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
Blit;.. . 

Her looks were like a flower in May, 
Her Bmile whs like u simmer morn, 
She tripp'd by the banks of Bra 

Aj light's a bird upon a thorn. 

Blit!, 

II. -• bonnie bee it was as meek 

As onv lamb upon a lee ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

A- was the blink o' Phemie's ee. 

Blit!: 

The Highland hill- I've wander'd wide, 
And o'er the Lowlands I hue been; 

But Phemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blithe, Sec. 



SOTO. 

Tun b— " My wi the cold ground." 

My Chloris, mark how preen the groves, 
The primrose banks how lair : 



BURNS' POEMS. 303 

The balmy gales awake the flowers, 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings ; 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blithe, in the birken shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are there hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 

The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 

In shepherd's phrase will woo : 
The courtier tells a finer tale, 

But is his heart as true ? 

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 

That spotless breast o' thine : 
The courtiers' gems may witness love — 

But 'tis na love like mine. 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 

Tune — " Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey" 
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 



:1"1 JIURXS' POEMS. 

But day and night my fancy's flight 
v, i' my Jean. 

her in the dewy Mowers, 
b r sweet and lair: 
I hear her in the tnnera* birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's oot a bonnie flower thai springs 

By fountain, shaw, "r gn 

There's not a bonnie bird thai - 

lint minds me <<' my Jean* 



WILLIE BREWD A PECK <>" MAUT. 
( ), w r i.i.i 1; brew*d a peek o' mant, 

And Rob and Allan cam to see; 

Three blither hearts thai lee-Iang night 
d na find in < Jhristendie. 
We are na (bo, we're na that fou, 
Botjosl a drappie in oar 

The COCk may crasv, the day may daw, 

And aye we'll taste the barley ba 

Here are we met, three men] 
: i.-rry boys I trow an 
And mony a night we've merry been, 
And mony mae we hope to be ! 

We are na fou, 6cc. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
That's blinking in the lift sae high ; 

She shines Bae bright to wyle us hame, 
But by my - iot£ BheH wait a wee! 
We are na fou, kc. 

Wha first shall rise to gmg awa, 
A cuckold, coward loun i- 



burns' poems. 305 



Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 
He is the king amang us three ! 
We are na lou, &c. 



TAM GLEN. 

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie, 
Some counsel unto me come len', 

To anger them a' is a pity ; 
But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen ? 

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith I might mak a fen' ; 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I mauna marry Tarn Glen? 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Drumeller, 
" Gude day to you, brute," he comes ben; 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 
But when will he dance like Tarn Glen? 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me ; 
But wha can think sae o' Tarn Glen? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten ; 

But, if it's ordain'd I maun tak him, 
O wha will I get but Tarn Glen ? 

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written, Tarn Glen. 

The last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 



306 burns' poems. 

His Likeness cam up the house staukin, 
And the very grey breeks o' Tarn Own I 

( fame counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ; 
I'll gie yon my bonnie black hen, 

Glf ye will :nl\ Isfl me kO marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tarn Glen. 



\\ HATTAN A Vol \(, LASSIE DO WT AN 

A I 1.1) U A.N .' 

W II vr can a yonng la— ie. what ^hall a young laasic, 

\\ bat can a yonng lassie do wV an anld man I 
Had luck on the \» anie that tempted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian 1 ! 
B id luck on the penaJe, &c. 

mpleanin frae morabt to eYnin, 
He boets and be bJrples the weal? day bang ; 

I r, and he's oozin. bis blind it Is frozen, 
( ), dreary's the night wi a crazy auld man ! 

He horns and he hanker-, he fats and he cankers, 
I n. -m r can pli ase aim, do a' that I can ; 

He's i" ei Lsfa and jealous of a' the yonng fellows : 
< K dool "ii the <lay I met wi' an auld man ! 

My anld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan; 

I'll cross him, ami wrack him, until I heart-break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy roe a new pan. 



burns' poems. 307 

O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM! 

Tune—" The Moudieicort." 

CHORUS. 

An O, for ane and twenty, Tarn ! 

An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn! 
I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang, 

And I saw ane and twenty, Tain. 

They snool me sair, and haud me down, 

And gar me look like bluntie, Tarn ! 
But three short years will soon wheel roun', 

And then comes ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
An O, for ane, &c. 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 

Was left me by my auntie, Tarn ; 
At kith or kin I need na spier, 

An I saw ane and twenty, Tarn. 
An O, for ane, &c. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 

Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, Tarn; 
But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my loof, 

I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
An 0, for ane, &c. 



THE BANKS O' DOON. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae weary, fu' o' care ! 

Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 
That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 
x2 



Ml DUHiN's' FUKH8 

Tliou minds me <»' departed joys, 
Departed never to return! 

Oft har I cored by bonnie Doon, 

ihr rose ami woodbine twine ; 
Ami ilka bird Bang <•' it- lore, 

And fondly Bae did 1 o' mine. 
"W r lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

In' sweet npon i t ^ thorny tree ; 
And my fause lover stole m] 

15.it ah ! he left the thorn wi' inc. 



81C a V7IFE AS WILLIE HAD. 
Willie Wastledwalt on Tweed, 

Tin- -pot they ea'd it l.inkuiudoddie, 
'V^' i 1 1 i. - vsa- a wabstergaid, 

< '.l Btown a cine wi.-' onie bodlej 

He bad i wit", was .lour and din, 
( ) Tinkler Madgie was her mither; 

•-. lie BS Willie hail, 

I i.a gte a batton tor her. 

Sh'- has an | 

< olour; 
Five rosty teeth, forbye a stamp, 
A clapper tongne wad deare a miller ; 

A whiSKin heard ahout her mon, 
Her nose and chin they threaten ither; 
9iea wife, ac. 

rw-hoogh'd, she's hein-shinn'd, 
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter; 
twisted right, she's twisted left, 
To balance fair in ilka quarter: 
She has a hump upon her breast, 
The twin o' that upon shouther : 
Sic a wife, &C. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, 

An' wi' her loof her face a-washin ; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ; 
Her walie nieves like midden-creels, 
Her face wad fyle the Logan- Water ; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 
I wad na gie a button for her, 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrows wrings thy gentle heart, 
O wilt thou let me cheer thee? 

By the treasure of my soul, 
And that's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow, that only thou 
Shall ever be my dearie, 

Only thou, I swear and vow, 

Shall ever be my dearie'. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me; N 

Or if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me; 

If it winna, canna be, 
Thou for thine may choose me ; 

Let ire lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 

Lassie, let me quickly die, 

Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikle and lang; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, 

And I may e'en gae hang. 



310 BURNS' POEMS. 

A coof cam in \vi' rowtli o' gear, 

And I hae tint my dearest dear, 

35ti t woman is but warld's gear, 

Sac let the bonnie iass gang. 

Wliac'cr ye be tliat woman love, 

To this' he never blind, 
PTae rerlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman bas't by kind : 
< • unniaii lovely, woman mil I 
An angel form's fann to thy *hare, 
Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee malr, 

I mean an angel mind. 



o. WAT Vi: WIIA'S IN VON TOWN? 

O, wat ye whaY in yon town, 
in -mi up hi .' 
The fairest dame's in yon town, 
That e'enin sun if shining ob. 

Now Imply down yon gay green show : 
She wanders by yon spreading tree, 

How blest ye flowers that round her Maw, 

teli the glances o' her ee. 

How blest ye birds that round her sine:, 
And welcome in the blo omi ng year, 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blithe on yon town, 
And on yon bonnie braes ol' Ay re ; 

But my delight in yoi 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair - . 



burns' poems. 311 

Without my love, not a' the charms 

O' Paradise could yield me joy ; 
But gie me Lucy in my arms, 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 

Tho' raging winter rent the air; 
And she a lovely little flower, 

That I wad tent and shelter there. 

sweet is she in yon town, 

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ; 
A fairer than's in yon town 
His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe, 
And suffering I am doom'd to bear ; 

1 careless quit aught else below, 

But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, 

And she — as fairest is her form 1 
She has the truest, kindest heart. 



THE RED, RED ROSE. 

O, my luve's like a red, red rose,' 
That's newly sprung in June : 

O, my luve's like the melodie 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 



! BUJUM NHM 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt \\T the wot 

I will hive thee Btfll. my dear, 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And hire thee wed, my only lu\e! 

And tare thee ireel a while! 
And I \\ ill come again, my line, 
TIid' it were ten thousand mile. 



SON<, OP DEATH. 

& of battle; time of the day evening ; 
tin- wounded and dying of the victorious army 
I to join nt tin following Song. 

I'auku i.r.i., thou fair day, thOfl g tO SM e;irtli. ami ye 

Horn gay with the bright Mttim_ r pod ; 
Farewell, love* and friendships, ye dear, tender tie-;, 

( )ur : .(■(■ i- rim ! 

Thon grim kintr of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 
frighten the coward, ami ihi 
aeh them to tremble, fell tyrant! hut know, 
no tenon hast thon t<> the bn 

Thon strikes the dell peasant— he i-inks in the dark, 

ff or saves e'en the wreck of a name: 
Thon Btrik'st the young hero— a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze ofhis fame! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in oar 
hand-. 
< )ur king and our country to save— 

obing sands, 
O! who would not re>t with the brave ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 313 



IMITATION OF AN OLD JACOBITE SONG, 

By yon castle wa' at the close o' the day, 
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey; 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars : 
We dare na weel say % but we ken wha's to blame— 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd : 
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Sin' I tint my bairns and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moments my words are the same — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 

Thou lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 

O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans' that rend his breast? 

That sacred hour can I forget, 
Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 



314 BUUNS' POEMS. 

Where by the winding Ayr we met, 
To live one day of parting love ! 

Eternity will m>t e&ace. 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy Image at <>ur last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last I 

Ayr. gurgling klss'd his pebbled shore, 

» rernung with wild woods, thickening, green, 
Tin- Rragranl birch, and hawthorn boar, 

Twin'd am'rons round the ruptur'd scene. 

The Bowers sprang wanton to be preel 
The birds sang love on every iprey, 

Till too. too Boon, the glowing west. 
Proclalm'd the ■peed of winged day. 

SUE iiii'iii'rv wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
but tlf im p res s ion deeper makes, 
Ai streams their channels deeper wear. 

.My Ifary, < : ihadfi I 

Where u thy blissful place of rest? 

thou thy lover lowly laid .' 
Hearst thou the groans that rend bis breast .' 



N A E BODY. 

1 HAS a wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake \vi' naebody ; 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to naebody. 

I hae a penny to spend, 
There— thanks to naebody ; 



burns' poems. 315 



I hae nothing to lend, 
I'll borrow frae naebody. 

I am naebody's lord, 
I'll be slave to naebody ; 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
I'll tak dunts frae naebody. 

I'll be merry and free, 
I'll be sad for naebody ; 

If naebody care for me, 
I'll care for naebody. 



TO MARY. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave old Scotia's shore ? 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across th' Atlantic's roar? 

sweet grows the lime and the orange, 
And the apple on the pine ; 

But a' the charms o' the Indies 
Can never equal thine. 

1 hae sworn by the heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow I 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand ; 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 



nir> burns' poems. 

We liao plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection t<> join, 
And enrat be the cause that Bhall part us! 

The hoar, and the moment <>' tune. 



BONNIE LESLEY. 

( > -a v. ye bonnie Lesley, 

tie '-.i. 'I o'er the border? 
roe, like Alexander, 
To spread ber conquests farther. 

her It to lore her, 
And love l>ut her For 
Por Nature made her what the Is, 
And Di '• r made sic anither ; 

Thou art :i queen, fair Lesley, 

Thy Bubji eta we, i" fare I 
Thou ;n Lesley. 

The hearts o' in' a I 

The deil he c >old aa scaith thee, 
< >r aught that wad 

He'll ; 

Hie powers abooo will tent thee, 
Misfortune sha'ns steer thee ; 

Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 
That ill they'll ne'er let near tlieo. 

Return again, fair I. 

Return to ' ialedonie! 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's Dane again sae bonnie. 



BUKNS' POEMS. 317 

MARY MORISON. 
Tune — " Bide ye yet." 

Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour, 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor ; 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weery slave frae sun to sun : 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling string, 
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 
I sat, but neither heard nor saw: 

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

1 sigh'd, and said amang them a', 
" Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown : 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



SONG. 
Tune — " Liggeram Cosh. y 
Blithe hae I been on yon hill, 
As the lambs before me ; 



318 BOB** roEMS. 

( anl. B8 ilka thonghl and firee, 
As the breese flaw o'er me: 

ae longer sport and pluy, 
Mirth or sang can please a\e ; 
Is aae bur and coy, 
ind anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy, is ttx 
Hopeless tore declaring : 

Trembling, I dow oocht Sal plow'r, 
Sighing;, damb, detpi 

If she wiima i-.t-c the tin 

In 1 1 1 % bosom swelling, 
[Jnderneath the grass-green sod, 

D maim !■<• my dwelling. 



BONNIE J KAN. 
. and she was tuir, 

At kirk and market to l>. 

When a 1 the wir es ! maids were ai 

The fair- -t maid was bomde .ban. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, 
And aye sh< i rilie ; 

The blithest bird upon the bosh 
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

Hut hawks will rub the tender jeys 

the little lintwhite'snaflt; 

And fru-t will blight the fairest flowers, 
And lore will break the soundest rest. 

ll lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 
And he had owsen, sheep, and 
And wanton uaijries nine or ten. 



BURN ' POEMS. 319 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 

He danced wi' Jeanie on the down; 
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 

As in the bosom o' the stream, 
The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love, 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 

And now she works her mammie's wark, 
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain; 

Yet wist na what her ail might be, 
Or what wad mak her weel again. 

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, 

And did na joy blink in her ee, 
As Robie tauld a tale o' love, 

As e'ening on the lily lea ? 

The sun was sinking in the west, 

The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 
His cheek to her's he fondly prest, 

And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : 

" O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

O eanst thou think to fancy me ? 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And then to tent the farms wi' me? 

" At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 

Or naething'else to trouble thee ; 
But stray amang the heather bells, 

And tent the waving corn wi' me." 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent, 

And love was ave between them twa> 



320 BURNS 1 POEMS. 



TIBBIE, I II AK SllKN THE DAY. 
Tim:-" Invcrcanhl's Red," 



o Tibbie, I hae Been the day, 
Ye would oa been sac Bhy ; 

Por lack • •' ■_• ar ye lightly me, 
Hut, trowth, I care oa by. 

i I met yon on tin- moor, 
, » - spak oa, but gaed by like 

al me i>< cause I'm poor, 
Hut flent a hair care I, 
Tibbie, I hae,6e. 

I doubt na. lass, but ye may think, 
the name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at ;t wink, 
Whene'er ye like t<> try. 
Tibbie, I 1. 

Hut Borrow tak him that's aae mpan, 
Altij.i' bis poucb "' coin wen 
W'ha follows ony saucy qm 
That I'm,];- sac proud and high. 
Tibbie, I be 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 
it" that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye' 11 ca>t your head anither airt, 
And answer him fV dry. 
Tibbie, I hae, fce. * 

Rut if he hae the name o' ^ear, 
Yell fasten to him like abr 



burns' poems. 321 

Tho' hardly he for sense or lear 
Be better than the kye. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice; 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I wad na gie her in her sark, 
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark ; 
Ye need na look sae high, 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 



SONG. 
Tune—" Fee him, Father." 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever. 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death 

Only should us sever ; 
Now thou'st left thy lass for aye, — 

I maun see thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsakeu. 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken. 
Thou canst love anither jo, 

While my heart is breaking: 
Soon my weary een I'll close, 

Never mair to waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken. 



32-2 burns' pok.mh. 

PAIB JENNY. 

Tin b — u Saw ye my Father?" 

\\'ni:iti: are tin- joys I have met in the morning, 
That danc'd to the link's earh song ! 

Where is the peace thai awaited my wand'ring, 
At evening the wild woodi among? 

No more a winding the course of Ton ri\t r, 
And marking Bwect flow'rcti so lair; 

I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 
Bui Borrow and sad sighing care* 

I- it that Bummer's forsaken our valleys, 

Ami ■_'! iin, surly winter is mar .' 
No, ii". the )>< . - hamming round the gay roses 
Proclaim it the pride of the y< ar. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, 

ell have I known ; 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom 

Is Jenny, i'air Jenny, alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 

Nor hope dare a comfort bestow ; 
Come then, enamoor'd and fond of my anguish, 

Enjoyment I'll seek in my wo. 



BONO. 

Tcne— " To Janet." 

HU8BA9 1), husband, cease your strife, 

Nor longer idly rave, sir; 
Though I am your wedded wife, 

Vit I am not your slave, sir! 



burns' poems. 

" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Is it man or woman, say, 

My spouse, Nancy ?" 

If 'tis still the lordly word, 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sov'reign lord, 

And so, good bye allegiance ! 

" Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

My poor neart then break it must, 
My last hour I'm near it; 

When you lay me in the dust, 
Think, think how you will bear it. 

"I will hope and trust in Heav'n, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

Well, sir, from the silent dead, 
Still I'll try to daunt you ; 

Ever round your midnight bed 
Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

" I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse, Nancy." 



M lUHNS' I'OEMS. 

SONG. 
Tune—*' Cauldkaii in Attfdem.' 

How lang and dreary ii the night 

When I am frae my dearie ; 
I restless lie frae e'en t<> morn, 

Though I w< if ae'er see weary. 



For, oh! her lanely eights arc lang, 
And, oh ' her dreams are eerie ; 

And, oh! her widowd heari Lssair, 
That's abeenl frae her dearie. 

"\\" 1 »« - ii I think on the lightsome di 

I spent \\i' thee, my dearie, 
And dow what seas between us roar, 
c in I be bnl i 
For, oh! fee. 

iw hoars! 
The joyless day.how dreary ! 
It wa- Hi sac j <• glinted by 
I '.\a^ wi' my dearie. 
For, oh! fee. 



►NO, 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD BHGLMB ONE. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh anil gay, 
One morning, by the break of day, 
The youthful, charming Chloe; 



BURNS' POEMS. 325 



Prom peaceful slumber she arose. 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flow'ry mead she goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 



Lovely was she by the dawn, 
Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 

Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feather'd people you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody 

They hail the charming Chloe. 
Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes 

Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, &c. 



SONG. 
Tune — " Lumps o' Pudding." 
Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp as they're creepin alang, 
Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang. 

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought ; 
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught : 
My mirth and good humour are coin in my pouch, 
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare 
touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' ; 



320 uurn.s' POEMS. 

When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he 1ms past! 

Blind Chance, let her Bnapper and Btoyte <»n her way ; 
Be't i" me, be't free me, e'en let the jade gae: 
Come ease, or come travail, come pleasure or pain, 
My vrarst w »rd is — •• Welcome, and welcome again!" 



CANSTTHOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY? 
Tone—" 9oy'« H 

CHOBUS. 

r thon leave me thus, my Katy? 
Canst thon leave me thus, my Katy"? 
Well thon know'st my aching heart, 
Ami canst thon leave me thus for pity ? 

Is this thy plighted fond regard, 
crnclly t<> part, my Katy? 

I- this thy faithful -wiiin's reward — 

An aching, broken heart, my Kuty ? 
Canst tli mi. 

II ! and ne'er such ^irrow^ tear 
Thai fickle heart of thin-, my Katy! 
Thou may'st find those will love thee dear — 
' not a love like mine, my Katy. 
Canst thou, kc. . 



MY .VA.WIE'S AW A. 

TtJHE — ** There'll never he /jiuee, tfc." 

Now in her ccreen mantle blithe Nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes; 



burns' foems. 327 

While birds warble welcome in ilka green sbaw ; 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snawdrap and primrose our woodlands adorn, 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie— and Nannie's awa. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the clews of the lawn ; 
The shepherd to warn o' the grey-breaking dawn, 
And thou, mellow mavis, that hails the night fa', 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come, Autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, 
And sooth me wi' tidings o' Nature's decay ; 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa. 



SONG. 

Tune — " Laddie, Re near me." 

'Twas na her bonnie blue ee was ray rain ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet stown glance o' kindness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plightecl me love o' the dearest ! 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter, 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



:tt-* 1(1 HNS POEMS. 



SO.\(.. 
Tvs v.— " Rothemurch* 



F LIRB8T maid on Devon bank*, 

1 Devon, winding Devon, 
Wilt thou lay that Grown aside, 
And smile as thou were wont to do ? 

Full well Ihoii knOWSl I love thee, dear. 

Conkist thou to malice tend an car ! 
« », did col love exclaim, " Forbear) 
r ase ;i faithful lover 
Pain si 

Then come, thoa fairest of tin- fair, 
Those wonted Bmilee, < ». let me share ; 
Ami, by thy beanteoui Belf I Bwear. 
\o love hut thine my heart ahaD know. 
Pairesl maul. See. 



Tin; vin.\(i HIGHLAND i; 
Tuna " Morag* 
Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 

The snaws tin- mountains cover; 
Like winter on m< - 

ghland Rover 
Far wanders cations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

May Beaven be hi- warden ; 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle-Gordon! 

The trees now naked groaning, 
Shall soon wi* leaves he hinging, 



BURNS' POEMS. 

The birdies dowie moaning, 

Shall a' be blithely singing. 

And every flower be springing, 
Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 

When, by bis mighty warden, 
My youth's return' d to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon. 



WHERE, BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS. 
Tune — " N. Goiv's Lamentation for Abercairny.'* 

Where, braving: angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Oehels rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one who, by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam, 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour, 
Where Peggy's charms T first survey 'd, 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 
The tyrant Death, with grim control, 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 
The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea^ 

Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 
But nature sicken' d on the ee. 



330 BUKNS' POEMS. 

Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel in beauty's bloom the whyle, 

And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 
Fareweel the braes o' Balloehmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again ye'll flourish fresh mid fair; 

Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers, 

\<_ r ain ye'll charm the vocal air j 

lint here, alas ' for me aae mair 
Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 

Pareweei the bonnic banks of Ayr, 

Fan-wee!, fareweel ! Bweet Hallochmyle. 



FAREWELL THOU STREAM. 

!.r. thou stream that winding flows 

Around Eliza's dwelling ! 
<> mem'ry! Bpare tie- cruel tliroes 

Within juy bosom swelling: 
Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, 

And yet in Be 
To fieel a lire iii e\'ry \eiu, 

Not dare ii j ndsh. 

reriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my griefs would cover : 
The bursting Bigh. th' unweeting groan, 

Betray the liapless lover. 
I know thou doom'sl me to despair, 

\or wilt, nor canst relieve me; 
But o)i, Eliza, hear one prayer— 

For pity's sake forgive me! 

The music of thy voice I heard, 
Not wist while it enslav'd me; 



burns' fobms. 331 



I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 
'Till fears no more had sav'd me; 

The unwary sailor thus aghast, 
The wheeling torrent viewing ; 

'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 
In overwhelming ruin. 



JOHN ANDERSON. 

Tune — " John Anderson my jo? 
John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent ; 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw : 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
But we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go; 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

Tune—" The Hose-bud:' 
A rose-bud by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-inclosed bawk, r 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 
All on a dewy morning. 



032 burns' poems. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the hush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 

The dew sat chilly OD her breast 
Sac early in the morning. 

She booh shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang thefn Bn green leaves bedew'd, 
Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jenny fair! 
On trembling string* or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly nay the tender care 

That tents thy early morning. 
So thou, Bweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shall beauteous blaze upon the day, 
I bless the parent's evening ray 

That watch'd thy early morning. 



THE JOYFUL WIDOWER. 
Tunb — (l Maggy Lauder." 
I makkikd with a scolding wife 
The fourteenth of November; 

She made me weary of my life, 

By one unruly member. 
Long did I bear the heavy yoke, 

And many griefs attended ; 
But, to my comfort be it spoke, 

Now, now her life is ended. 

We liv'd full one-and-twenty years 
A man and wife together ; 



BURNS* POEMS. 333 

At length from me her course she steer'd, 

And gone I know not whither : 
Would I could guess, I do profess, 

I speak, and do not flatter, 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 

Her body is bestowed well, 

A handsome grave does hide her, 
But sure her soul is not in hell, 

The deil would ne'er abide her, 
I rather think she is aloft, 

And imitating thunder ; 
For why, — methinks I hear her voice 

Tearing the clouds asunder. 



FAIR ELIZA. 

A Gaelic Air. 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thv heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended 1 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine would gladly die? 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe ; 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Not the hoc upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' many noon; 
Not the little Boosting fttfry, 

All beneath the Bimmer moon; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lighten* on his e'e, 
Kens the pleasure, feeli the rapture, 

That thy presence gies to me. 



THE PARTING KISS. 
j 'a ta'en the parting kiss, 

< iVr the mountains be is ganc; 
And with him la a' m 

Naught bnt griefs with me remain. 

Spare my Inve, ye winds that blaw, 
Plaahy sleets and beating ruin ! 

Spun- my luve, thou Feathery snaw, 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain! 

When the Bhades of evening creep 

< Vex the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 
Bound and safely may he sleep, 

Sweetly blithe his waukening be! 

He will think on her he loves, 
Fondly he'll repeat her name; 

Pot where'er he distant roves, 
Jockey's heart is still at hame' 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 
Tune—" Druimion dubh." 
Musing on the roaring ocean, 
Which divides my love and me; 



burns' poems. 335 

Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, 
For his weel where'er he he. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 

Yielding late to Nature's law; 
Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 

Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded , 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me, 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; 
Spirits kind, again attend me, 

Talk of him that's far awa! 



LORD GREGORY. 

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, 

And loud the tempest's roar; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r, 

Lord Gregory ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha', 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

If love it may na be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, 

By bonnie 'irwine side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin love 

I lang, lang had denied? 

How aften didst thou pledge and vow, 
Thou wad for aye be mine ! 



BUKNS' 1'OE.MS. 

And m\ fond heart, itsel .sue true. 
It neYr mistrusted thine. 

Hani is thy heart. Lord Gregory, 

An<l flinty la thy breast i 
Thon dart or heaven, that llashestby, 

< » wilt t Ik-ii give me n Bt, 

Ye mustering thunders from ubove, 

^ our willing \ ietim iee! 
Bui Bpare, ami pardon my fause love, 

UN wrangfl to heaven and nie! 



OPEN THE DOOB TO ME, OH! 

WITH .VLTKKATIOXS. 

Oh, open the door, some pity to show, 

< )h. open the door to me. < >h! 
Tho' thon hast been false, I'll ever prove true, 

I )h, open the door to me, < >h I 

Cauld is the blasl opon my pale cheek, 

Bat caulder thy lore for me, < >h ! 
The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 

Is nought to ni\ pains frae thee, oh '. 

The wan moon i- setting behind the white wave, 
And time i- setting with me, oh! 

False friend-, false love, farewell! for mair 
I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh ! 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide ; 

She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh ! 
My true love! she cried, and sank down by his side, 
r to rise again, Oh ! 



burns' poems. 337 



CLARINDA. 



Clarinda, mistress of roy soul, 

The measur'd time is run ! 
The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 

So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part — but by these precious drops, 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps, 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
Has blest my glorious day : 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



CRAIGIE-BURN. 

Tune — " Craicjie-burn-ioood." 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 
And blithe awakes the morrow; 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 
I hear the wild birds singing ; 

But what a weary wight can please, 
And care his bosom wringing ? 



I nrnxs' jtoems. 

Fain, tain would I my griefs impart, 

Yt r dare oa for your anger; 
But Becret love will break my heart, 

[f l conceal it langer. 

[f thou refuse to pity me. 

U thou shah love anitner, 
\\ ben yon preen leaves fade frae the tree, 

Around my grave they'll wither. 



ISABELLA. 

Ti •• i •' M'Gregor of It nam's Lament.' 
Raving winds around her blowing. 

Yellow leave-, the woodhunls strowing, 

By a river boarsely roaring! 
Isabella BtrayM, deploring - 
" Farewell, hours thai late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow. 

"O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering; 
Chilly grief my life-blood fn 
Fell despair my fancy - 
Life, thou b ml of ev< ry blessing, 
Load to mia ry most distressing, 
O Iiow gladly I'd resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee !" 



burns' poems. 339 



THE WHISTLE. 

A BALLAD. 

As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curious, I 
shall here give it.— In the train of Anne of Denmark, when 
she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came 
over also a Danish Gentleman of gigantic stature, and great 
prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a 
little ebony Whistle, which, at the commencement of the 
orgies, he laid on the table, and whoever was last able to 
blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of the 
bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as a trophy of victory. 
The Dane produced credentials of his victories, without a 
single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Mos» 
cow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany ; 
and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of 
trying his prowess or else of acknowledging their inferiority. 

After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane 
was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie, of Maxwelton, ances- 
tor of the present baronet of that name; who, after three 
days and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian 
under the table, 

And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before-mentioned, afterwards 
lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glenriddel, who had 
married a sister of Sir Walter's. — On Friday, the 16th of 
October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the Whistle was once more 
contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir 
Robert Lawrie, of Maxwelton ; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glen- 
riddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, 
who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had continued; 
and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise 
descended of the great Sir Robert ; which last gentleman 
carried off the hard-won honours of the field. 

I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish King, 
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. 
z2 



340 BURNS' POEMS. 

Old Loda* still rueing the arm of Pineal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall — 
" This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er, 
And drink, them to hell, Sir ! or ne'er see me more !" 

( 'Id poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventured, what champions tell; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Till B >bert, the lord of the < !aini and the Scaur, 

I iiiiKitch'd at the bottle, unroiHpirr'd in war, 

He drank hi-^ poor pod-ship as deep as tfa 

Mo tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Tims Robert, victorious, the trophy has gam'd ; 
Which now in his house lias for ages remain'd ; 

Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellow.-, with hearts clear of flaw; 
Craigdarroch, bo famous for wit, worth, and law; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else be would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 

" By the gods of the ancients !" Glenriddle replies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 



1 See Ot5iun's Carie-thura. 



burns' poems.- 341 

I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,* 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er." 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, 
But he ne'er tnrn'd his back on his foe— or his friend, 
Said, " Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, 
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield." 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; 

But for wine and for welcome not more known to 

fame, 
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet, lovely 

dame. 

A Bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And every new cork is a new spring "of joy ; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they were 
wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er : 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did. 



* See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. 



342 burns' poems. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare ungodly would wage I 
A high-ruling Elder to wallow iu wine! 
lie left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; 

Rut who can witb fate and quart-bumpers contend ?J 

Tho' fate said— a hero should perish in light; 

So up rose bright Phoebus, and down fell the knight. 

Next up rose our Hard, like a prophet in drink : — 
'• ( Iraigdarroch thoul't soar when creation shall sink; 
Rut if thou would Sourish immortal in rhyme, 

Come — one bottle more— and have at the sublime ! 

u Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Rruce, 
Shall aeroet and patriots ever produce: 

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 

The field thou hast won, by you bright god of day !" 



GLOSSARY. 



The cJi and gli have always the guttural sound. The sound 
of the English diphthong oo is commonly spelt on. The 
French u, a sound which often occurs in the Scottish 
language, is marked oo, or id. The a in genuine Scottish 
■words, except when forming a diphthong, or followed by 
an e mute after a single consonant, sounds generally like 
the broad English a in trail. The Scottish diphthong ae, 
always, and ea, very often, sound like the French e mas- 
culine. The Scottish diphthong ey sounds like the 
Latin ei. 



A', all. 

Aback, away, aloof. 

Abeigh, at a sby distance. 

Aboon, above, up. 

Abread, abroad, in sight. 

Abreed, in breadth. 

Ae, one. 

Aff, off 5 aff loof, unpre- 
meditated. 

Afore, before. 

Aft, oft. 

Aften, often. 

Agley, off the right line, 
wrong. 

Aiblins, perhaps. 

Ain, own. 

Air, early, soon ; the oak. 

Airl-penny, earnest-mo- 
ney. 

Aim, iron. 

Airt, quarter of the hea- 
vens ; to direct. 



Aith, an oath. 

Aits, oats. 

Aiver, an old horse. 

Aizle, a hot cinder. 

Alake, alas ! 

Alane, alone. 

Akwart, awkward. 

Amaist, almost. 

An', and, if. 

Ance, once. 

Ane, one, an. 

Anent, over against. 

Anither, another. 

Ase, ashes. 

Asteer, abroad, stirring. 

Aught, possession ; as, in 

a? my aught, in all my 

possession. 
Auldfarran, or auldfarrant, 

cunning, prudent. 
Ava, at all. 
Awa, away. 



344 SI 

A win', awful. 

Awn, the beard of barley. 

oats, fee. 
Awiiic, bearded. 

Ayout, beyond. 

B. 

BA', hull. 

Backets, ash-boards. 

Backlins eomin', coming 

back, returning. 
Bad. did bid. 

. endured, did stay. 

. large-boned. 
Bairn, a child. 
Bairn-time, a family of 
children, a brood. 
. both. 

. to beat, tu -■ 
Bardie, diminutive of bard. 

Barmie, of or like barm. 

..a crew, a g 
Batts, botts. 
Baudrons, a cat. 
Bauld, bold. 

ink. 
:.t, having a white- 
stripe down the face. 
Be, to let be, to give over. 

to cease. 
Bear, barley. 
Beastie, dimin. of beast. 
Beet, to add fuel to fire. 
Belyve, by and by. 



Hen, into the parlour. 
Bethankit, grace after 

meat. 
Beak, a book. 
Bicker, a kind of wooden 

dish, a short race. 
Biel, or bield, shelter. 
Mien, wealthy, plentiful. 
Big, to build'. 
Biggin, building a house. 

built 
Hill, a bull. 
Billie, a brother, a young 

fellow. 
Bin,, a heap of grain, pota- 

Hirk, birch. 

Birkie, a clever fellow. 

. the noise of par- 
0. when they 

spring. 

. "irk of time. 
Bi :z, u bustle, to buzz. 
Blastie, a shrivelled dwarf, 

a term of contempt. 
Blastit, blasted, 
Blate, bashful, sheepish. 
Blather, bladder. 
Bland, a flat piece of any 

thing; to ship. 
Blaw, to blow, to boast. 
Bleerit, bleared, sore with 

rheum. 
Bleezing, blazing. 
Bhdl urn, idle talking fellow 
Blether, to talk idly, non- 

Bleth'rin, talking idly. 



GLOSSARY. 345 



Blink, a little while ; a 
smiling look; to look 
kindly ; to shine by fits. 

Blinker, a term of con- 
tempt. 

Blinkin, smirkin. 

Blue-gown, an authorized 
beggar. 

Bluid, blood. 

Blype, a shred, alarge piece 

Bock, to vomit, to gush in- 
termittently. 

Bocked, gashed, vomited. 

Bodle, a small copper coin. 

Bogles, spirits, hobgoblins. 

Bonnie, or bonny, hand- 
some, beautiful. 

Bonnock, a kind of thick 
cake of bread. 

Boord, a board. 

Boortree, the shrub elder. 

Boost,behoved, mustneeds 

Bore, a hole in the wall. 

Botch, an angry tumour. 

Bousing, drinking. 

Bow-kail, cabbage. 

Bowt, bended, crooked. 

Brachens, fern. 

Brae, adeclivity,precipice. 

Braid, broad. 

Braindg't, reeled forward. 

Braik, a kind of harrow. 

Braindge, to run rashly. 

Brak, broke, made insol- 
vent. 

Branks, 'a kind of wooden 
curb for horses. 

Brash, a sudden illness. 



Brats, coarse clothes, rags, 

children, &c. 
Brattle, a short race, 

hurry, fury, 
Braw, fine, handsome. 
Brawly, or brawlie, very 

well, finely, heartily. 
Braxie, a morbid sheep. 
Breastie, dimin. of breast. 
Breastit, did spring up or 

forward. 
Brechan, fern. 
Breef, an irresistible spell. 
Breeks, breeches. 
Brent, smooth. 
Brewin, brewing. 
Brie, juice, liquid. 
Brig, a bridge. 
Brunstane, brimstone. 
Brisket, the breast. 
Brither, a brother. 
Brock, a badger. 
Brogue, a hum, a trick. 
Broo, broth, liquid, water. 
Broose, a race at country 

weddings. 
Brugh, a burgh. 
Bruilzie, a broil. 
Brunt, did burn, burnt. 
Brust, to burst, burst. 
Buchan-bullers, the boil- 
ing of the sea on the 

coast of Buchan. 
Buckskin, a Virginian. 
Bught, a pen. 
Bughtin-time, the time of 

collecting the sheep to 

be milked. 



34G GLOSSARY. 



Buirdly, stoutrinade. 
Bom-clock, ii humming 

beetle. 
Bommisg, bamming ns 

Bummle, to blander. 
Bummler, b blunderer. 
Banker, a window-seat. 
Bardies, dimin. of birds. 
Bure, did bear. 
Born, water, a rirolet, 
Burnie, dimin. of born. 
Boskie, boehy. 
lin-kit, dress* d. 

bottle, to bustle. 
Bat, bet, with. 
But an' ban, kitchen and 

parlour. 
By hiii. ---If, lunatic, (lis- 

tncted. 

. b bee-hire. 

'able. 



[ \\ bo call, la limine, to 

drive. 

Caft, or ea'd, called, driren, 
ealredi 

r, a carrier, 
•hah". 
Oaird, B tinker. 
C'air, a heap of stones. 
Callan, a boy. 
Caller, fresh, -oiind. 
Canie, or canine, gentle. 

mild, dexterous. 
Cantie, or canty, cheerful 

merry. 



Cantraip,acharm,n spell- 
( !ap-stane, key-stone. 
( !areerin, cheerfully. 
( !arl. an old man. 
( aihn, a stout old woman. 

<MllU. 

< 'audron, ;. eanldron. 

» auk and keel, chalk and 
red clay. 

< lauld, cold. 

< !aup, a wooden drinking 

\ easel. 

< 'hanter, a part of a bag* 

pipe. 

< lian, a person, a fellow, 
a blow. 

< 'lianp. a stroke, a Mow. 

. cheeked. 
« Iheep, a chirp, to chirp. 

< hid or cheel, a rospg 
fellow. 

Chimin or chimlie, a fire- 

grate, B lire-place. 

Chimla-lug, the flre-side. 
j, Bhlrering, 
trembling. 

< "hoc-kin, cooking. 

< how, to chew ; chrchfur 
chmOy side by side. 

( lnillie, fat-faced. 

I, a small village 
about a church. 
' lais, or elaes, clothes. 
Claith. cloth. 
Claithlng, elothing. 
Clairers, nonei 
Clap, clapper of a mill. 
Clarkit, wrote. 



Clash, an idle tale, the story 

of the day. 
Clatter, idle stories. 
Claught, snatched at. 
Claut,to clean, to scrape. 
Clauted, scraped. 
Clavers, idle stories. 
Claw, to scratch. 
Claw'd, scratched. 
Cleed, to clothe. 
Cleekit, having caught. 
Clinkin, jerking, clinking. 
Clinkumbell, who rings the 

church hells. 
Clips, sheers. 
Clishmaclaver, idle talk. 
Clock, to hatch, a beetle. 
Clockin, hatching. 
Cloot, hoof. 
Clootie, the Devil. 
Clour, a bump or swelling 

after a blow. 
Coble, a fishing boat. 
Cockernony, a lock of hair 

tied upon a girl's head; 

a cap. 
Coft, bought. 
Cog, a wooden dish. 
Coggie, dimin. of cog. 
Coda, from Kyle, a district 

of Ayrshire. 
Collie, a name for country 

curs. 
Collieshangie, quarrelling. 
Commaun, command. 
Cood, the cud. 
Coof, a blockhead. 
Coost, did cast. 



347 

Cooser, a horse kept for 
mares. 

Coot, the ank le or foot. 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen 
dish ; fowls whose legs 
are clad with feathers are 
also said to be cootie. 

Corbies, ravens. 

Core, corps, party, clan. 

Corn't, fed with oats. 

Cotter, the inhabitants of 
a cottage. 

Couthie, kind, loving. 

Cove, a cave. 

Cowe, to terrify, to keep 
under, to lop ; a fright ; 
a branch of furze, broom, 
&c. 

Cowp, to barter, to tumble 
over, a gang. 

Cowpit, tumbled. 

Cowrin, cowering. 

Cowte, a colt. 

Cozie, snug. 

Coziely, snugly. 

Crabbit, fretful. 

Crack, conversation, to 
converse. 

Craft, or croft, a field. 

Craiks, cries or calls in- 
cessantly, a bird. 

Crambo-clink, or crambo- 
jingle, rhymes, doggrel 
verses. 

Crank, the noise of an un- 
greased wheel. 

Crankous,fretful,captious. 

Cranreuch, hoarfrost. 



348 

Crap, a CTOp, feo 
( raw , , 

I 

a do 

continued mono. 

< !roouuig, hamming. 

ebeerfulj courage 1 

oatmeal and boiled wa- 
ter, ■ in the 
broth of beef, mul • 

< !rowlin, crawling. 

( rill:.: v with 

( 'imiiiu.rk. :i short 

( nrcli 

( uritr. a pli 

on t ; 
Cnrlie, curled. 
Colling, a well-known 

■ 

' I .uriiiir, iiiuriir 

alight rnmblii 
Curnm, the cr 

itock-dore, or 

Cutty, snort, a spoon. 

D. 

DADDIR. a father. 



Datl'm, merriment, foolish- 
Dai zt. Btapifled, deprived 
. ur or sensibility. 

Dal'l.iin rr\ , giddy, foolish. 

Daimen, rare, now and 
then ; daimen-icker. an 
corn now ;m«l then. 
Dainty, pleasant, good* 
humoured, agreeable, 
alleys. 
I i.ni'i, to thrash, to abuse. 
1 tour, to dare. 

I taurg, B <lav's labour. 

. I IV III. 

haw tii. car e ss e d. 

-. dimin. "f dears. 
I learthiu', dear. 
. to deafen. 

• Donaonrl 
it, delicious. 
. to desaribe. 

c.ni from ciiali'. 

-i. to posh. 

• Mot. 

: ,k.or pain. 
Dizzen, or di/.'n. a doaea. 
Doited, BtnpiH 

tupined, erased ; a 
stupid • 

■ now. 

Dorty, saucy, nice. 

. or douse, sober, 
. u'lent. 



GLOSSARY. 



Bought, was or were able 

Doup, backside. 

Doure, stout, durable, sul- 
len, stubborn. 

Dow, am or are able, can 

Dowff, wanting force. 

Dowie, worn with grief, 
fatigue, &c. 

Doylt, stupid. 

Drap, a drop, to drop. 

Dreep, to ooze, to drop. 

Dribble, drizzling, slaver. 

Drift, a drove. 

Droddurn, the breech. 

Drone, part of a bagpipe. 

Droukit, wet. 

Drounting, drawling. 

Drouth, thirst, drought. 

Drumly, muddy. 

Drummock, meal and wa- 
ter mixed raw. 

Drunt, pet, sour humour. 

Dub, a small pond. 

Duds, rags, clothes, 

Duddie, ragged. 

Dung, worsted ; pushed. 

Dunted, beaten, boxed. 

Dush, to push as a ram, &c 

E. 
EE, the eye. 
Een, the eyes. 
E'enin, evening. 
Eerie, frighted, dreading 

spirits. 
Eild, old age. 
Elbuck, the elbow. 
Eldritch, ghastly. 



En', end. 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 
Ettle, to try, attempt. 
Eydent, diligent. 

F. 

FA', fall, lot, to fall. 

Fa's, does fall, water- 
falls. 

Faddom't, fathomed. 

Fae, a foe. 

Faem, foam. 

Faiket, unknown. 

Fairin, a present. 

Fallow, fellow. 

Fand, did find. 

Farl, a cake of bread. 

Fash, trouble, care, to 
trouble, care for. 

Fasht, troubled. 

Fastern-e'en,Fastens-even 

Fauld, a fold, to fold. 

Faulding, folding. 

Faut, fault. 

Fawsont, decent, seemly. 

Feal, a field, smooth. 

Fearfu', frightful. 

Fear't, frighted. 

Feat, neat, spruce. 

Feebt, to fight. 

Fechtin, fighting. 

Feck, many, plenty. 

Fecket, waistcoat. 

Feckfu', large, stout. 

Feckless, puny, weak. 

Feckly, weakly. 

Feg fig. 

Feide, feud, enmity. 



3-30 

Fell, keen, biting; thefleab 
immediately under the 
skin ; afield* prettj level, 
• Mi the side <»r lop of a 
hill. 

-Till straggle, 
fight 
Fend, t" lire comfortably 
Ferlie, or ferley, t*> won- 

<ln ;i term 

Fetch, t" pal] by lite. 
Peti n't, p«lli d intermit- 
tently. 
■ 

- r 1 1 . 
Pient, Bend, a petty oath 

brother, u friend. 

• u rustling 

foot. 

rhorae 
of the nindmoat pair in 
tin.- plough. . 

PloJnen, Flannel. 

llatr<-iin_ i: 

I 

plieating. 

_ 
Flether, to decoy bj 

words. 
Pletherin, fiattering. 

Flovit/a "Mnart blow. 



Pley, to scare, to frighten. 

Flitcher, to flutter as 
yonng nestlings, when 
their dam approachea. 

Flickering, to meet, to en- 
counter with. 

Flinders, shreds, broken 
pieeea. 

Phngin-tree, a jiiece of 
timber bang by way of 

fiurtition between tarn 
stable; ;< tlail. 
Flisk, to fret at the yoke. 

Plisldt, fretted. 

Flitter, to \ ibrate like the 
of small hfarda. 

Flittering, flattering. 

Flunkie, a servant in liftjry 
ford. 
• forefathers. 

Porffdrn, »roraont,ja led. 
Porfoughten, (align id. 

• meet With. 

Fotner, I 

Fou', full, drank. 

ibled,haapa- 

Foath, _'li, or 

more tl 

also a 
fork. 
Prae, from. 
Preath, froth. 
Trien', friend. 
Fu', full. 



Fud, the scut of the hare, 

&c. 
Fuff,toblow intermittently 
Fuff't, did blow. 
Funnie, full of merriment, 

mirthful, 
Fur, a furrow. 
Furm, a form, bench. 
Fyke, trifling cares; to 

piddle, to be in a fuss 

about trifles. 
Fyle, to soil, to dirty. 
Fyl't, soiled, dirtied. 

G. 

GAB, the mouth ; tospeak 
boldly, or pertly. 

Gaber-lunzie, an old man, 

Gadsman, ploughboy, the 
boy that drives the hor- 
ses in the plough. 

Gae, to go ; gaed, went ; 
gaen, gone; gaun, going 

Gaet, or gate, way, man- 
ner, road. 

GaDg, to go, to walk. 

Gar, to make, to force to. 

Gar't, forced to. 

Garten, a garter. 

Gash,wise, sagacious,talk- 
ative, to converse. 

Gashin, conversing. 

Gaucy, jolly, large. 

Gawky, half-witted, fool- 
ish, romping. 

Gear, ricbes of any kind. 

Geek, to toss the 'head in 
wantonness or scorn, 



;ary. 351 

Ged, a pike. 

Gentles, great folks. 

Geordie, a guinea. 

Get, a child, a young one. 

Ghaist, a ghost. 

Gie, to give ; gied, gave; 
gien, given. 

Giftie, dimin, of gift. 

Giglets, playful girls. 

Gillie, dimin. of gill. 

Gilpey, a half-grown, half- 
informed boy or girl, a 
romping lad, a hoiden. 

Gimmer, an ewe from one 
to two years old. 

Gin, if, against. 

Gipsy , a young girl. 

Girning, grinning. 

Gizz, a periwig. 

Glaikit, inattentive, fool- 
ish, romping. 

Glaive, a sword. 

Glaizie, glittering, smooth, 
like a glass. 

Glaum'd, aimed, snatched. 

Gleck, sharp, ready. 

Gleg, sharp, ready. 

Gleib, glebe. 

Glen, dale, deep valley. 

Gley, a squint ; to squint ; 
agley ./}fFat a side,wrong. 

Glib-gabbet, that speaks 
smoothly and readily. 

Glint, to peep. 

Glinted, peeped. 

Glintin, peeping. 
JGloamin, the twilight. 

IGlowr, to stare, to look, 



GLOSSARY. 



< rlowred, looked, stared. 
Gowan, the flower of the 

daisy, dandelion, hawk- 
wit'il, JBC 

Gowany. gowany glens, 

daisied dates. 
Gowd, gold 

< kro tl', the game * > 4 * *_r * » 1 1 * - to 

strike as the bat does tin- 
lull at golf. 
( toy lid, -truck. 

< towk, a eoekoo, ■ b nn of 

contempt 

l howl. 

« Irene, orfcrrain, a groan, to 

Grain'd and gaunted, 
used and grunted. 
Graining, groaning. 
Graip, Instru- 

in. -nt for cleaning stables 

(iraitli,acc,.utr.-ini'iit-,t'iii- 
nitui . 

Grannie, grandmother. 

< trape, t>< ■_-. 

firapit. g 

shed tears. 

< treat, intimate, familiar. 

ar the 

gree, to be decidedly 

agreed. 

I 

tin. <t\ ing, weeping. 
Grip] 

t, to get the whistle 
« -r" "n. rs groat, to play a 
losing 



Grousome^oathsome^rim 
( trozet. a gooseberry. 
< hmmph. a grunt, to grunt. 
( trumpbie, a sow. 
( hrnn', ground. 
Grunstane, a grindstone. 
Gruntle, the phiz,ugrunt- 
big noise. 

month. 
Grnshie, thick, of thriving 

»wth. 
' rude, the Supreme Being; 

' .lli>l. -nod. 

' ruid-morning, good mor- 
row. 

( ruid-e'en, gOOd evening. 

( iuidmanandGuidwife^Qie 
master and mistre 
the house ; youi 
man, a uian newly mar- 
ried. 

Golly or gallic, a large 
knife. 

Guidfather, guidmother, 
father-in-law, and mo- 
ther-in-law. 

Gumlie, muddy. 

Gusty, tasteful. 
Hi 

HA*, hall. 

Ha'-bible, the great bible 
that lies in the hall. 

Ilaen, had, the participle. 

llaet, ftent haet, a petty 
oath of negation ; no- 
thing. 



GLOSSARY. 



353 



Hafier, the temple, the 
side of the head. 

HafflinSjnearly half,partl; 

Hag, a scar, or gulf in 
in mosses and moors. 

Haggis, a kind of pudding- 
boiled in the stomach of 
a cow or sheep. 

Hain, to spare, to save. 

Hain'd, spared. 

Hairst, harvest. 

Haith, a petty oath. 

Haivers, nonsense, spea 
ing without thought. 

Hal', or hald, an abiding 
place, 

Hale,whole,tight,healthy. 

Haly, holy. 

Hallan, a particular parti- 
tion-wall in a cottage, or 
more properly, a seat of 
turf at the outside. 

Hallowmas, Hallow-eve, 
the 31st of October. 

Hame, home. 

Hamely, homely, affable. 

Hameward, homeward. 

Han', or haun', hand. 

Hap, an outer garment, 
mantle, plaid, &c. to 
wrap, to cover, to hap. 

Happer, a hopper. 

Happing, hopping. 

Hap step an'loup, hop skip 
and leap. 

Harkit, hearkened. 

Harn, very coarse linen. 

Hastit, hastened. 
2 a 



Hash, a fellow that neither 
knows how to dress nor 
act with propriety. 

Hand, to hold. 

Haughs, low lying rich 
lands; valleys. 

Haurl, to drag, to peel. 

Haurlin, peeling. 

Haverel, a half-witted per- 
son; half-witted. 

Havins, good manners, 
decorum, good sense. 

Hawkie, a cow, properly 
one with a white face. 

Heapit, heaped. 

Healsome, healthful. 

Hearse, hoarse. 

Hear't, hear it. 

Heather, heath. 

Heck ! oh ! strange ! 

Hecht, promised to fore- 
tell something that is to 
be got or given; fore- 
told"; the thing foretold; 
offered. 

Heckle, a board in which 
are fixed a number of 
sharp pins, used in dress- 
ing hemp, flax, &c. 

Heeze, to elevate. 

Helm, the rudder or helm. 

Herd, to tend flocks, one 
who tends flocks. 

Herry, to plunder; most 
properly to plunder 
birds' nests. 

Herryment, plundering, 
devastation. 



354 glos 

Hereel, herself; aleoaherd 

of cattle of anv sort. 
lift, hot 

l [eotgb, a crag, or coal-pit. 
Hilcn,s bobble, to hilt. 
] liltie-skiltie, in rapid sno- 

- Mil. 

Himsel, himself. 
Hiney, honey. 
■ ban?. 
Hirple, to walk crazily, to 
creep. 

ttle ai 
onc person can attend 
!i stie, dry, chapt, barrel 

llitrlit, ;i bop, a knot. 

Hi£zie,bass] ,;i younggirl 
Hoddln, hamble. 
Hog-score, a distance line, 
rling, <lra\vn across 
the 

r, jostling 
with tin' should* 
jostle. 
Bool, outer skin or 

- > rely. 

Hoolie ! take i 
Hoord. a hoard ; to hoard 
Hoordit, hoarded. 
Horn, a spoon made of horn 
. the devil. 

• ■ ragh. 
h 1 1. turned topsytur- 
vy, mixed. 
J!' iV_ r hnue_ r andie, fornica- 
tion. 
Houp, hopp. 
Houlit, an owl. 



Housie, dimin.of house. 
Hove, t<> heave, toswell. 
Howdie, a midwife. 
Howe, hollow, a hollow. 

Howebackit, sunk in the 

back. 
Howff, a house of resort. 

di' n r . 

I loj , to arge. 

pull rrpwards. 
. to amble enudly. 
Hoghoc, dhnin. of Hugh. 

Hunkers the ham, the iiiu- 

ler part <>t' the tbigh. 
Hnroheon, a bedgehog. 
Hurdles, Che loin.-, tin; 

cropper. 
Hushfon, a cushion. 

I. 
r. in. 
[cker, an 081 of corn. 

[er-roe, a great grandchild 

Ilk, or ilka, eaeh, every. 

[11- willie, ill natui-i '1, ma- 
liciously, niggardly, 
ingine, preniu«, ingenuity. 
■ . fire-place. 

I-. I -hall or will. 
Ether, other, oik: another. 



JA D,jade; also a familiar 
for a giddy young 
' girl. 

Jauk, to dally, to trifle, 
.law, course raillery, to 
pour out as water. 



GLOSSARY. 



Jaup, a jerk of water. 
Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl. 
Jimp, to jump, slender, 

handsome. 
Jink, to dodge, to turn a 

corner, a sudden turning 
Jinker, that turns quickly, 

a sprightly girl, a wag. 
Jirk, a jerk. 

Jocteleg, a kind of knife. 
Jouk, to stoop, to bow th 

head. 
Jow, to jow, the swinging 

motion and pealing 

sound of a large bell. 
Jundie, to justle. 

K. 

KAE, a daw. 

Kail, colewort, a kind of 
broth. 

Kail-runt, the stem of 
colewort. 

Kain, fowls, &c. paid as 
Tent by a farmer. 

Kebbuck, a cheese. 

Keek, a peep, to peep. 

Kelpies, mischievous spi- 
rits, said to haunt fords 
and ferries at night. 

Ken, to know. 

Kennin, a small matter. 

Kenspeckle, well known. 

Ket, matted, hairy. 

Kiaugh, carking anxiety. 

Kilt,to truss up the clothes. 

Kimmer, a young girl, a 



gossip. 



2a2 



355 

Kin, kindred ; Kin', kind. 

King's-hood, a certain part 
of the entrails of an ox, 
&c. 

Kintra, country. 

Kintra-cooser, a country 
stallion. 

Kirn, the harvest supper, 
a churn. 

Kirsen, to baptize. 

Kist, a chest. 

Kitchen, any thing that 
eats with bread, to serve 
for soup, gravy, &c. 

Kith, kindred. 

Kittle, to tickle, ticklish, 
lively. 

Kittlin, a young cat. 

Kiuttle, to cuddle. 

Knappin-hammer, a ham- 
mer for breaking stones. 

Knowe, a round hillock. 

Knurl, dwarf. 

Kye, cows. 

Kyle, a district inAvrshire. 

Kyte, the belly. 

Ky the, to discover, to shew 
one's self. 

L. 

LAGGED, the angle be- 
tween the side and bot- 
tom of a wooden dish. 

Laigh, low. 

Lairing, sinking in snow, 
mud &c. 

Laith, loath. 

Laithfu'j bashful. 



256 -yk\. 

Lallan-. Scottish dial( ct. I. inn, a water-fall, a pre- 
Lambie, dimin. of lamb. \ clpice. 
Lampit,akindofahelltl8h. Lint, Qax: lint i' the bell, 
l.iiu'. land, estate. i in Bower. 



Lane, lone ; my lane, thy 

lane, \c. myself alone. 

Lanely, lonely. 

Lang, long, to weary. 

i leap. 

'uaiu- 

der. 

■'.. the lark. 
Lawin, reckoi 
Lawlan, Ion la 

store ground, nn> 
ploughed. 
I Leave. 

|0] Bi, true. 
I 
1 

of « n- 
■ . ! am happy or 

l. 
ttsh-dart. 

. did laugh, 

Libbet. gelded. 
Lightly, Bneeringly. 



.iiitwliite, a linnet. 

Loan, or loaning, the place 

of milking. 
Loot', the paimof the hand. 

Loot, dill let. 

plural of loof. 

Loon, a fellow, a nr_ra- 

iniitiin.a woman of I 
i hrtae. 

Lonp, jump, leap. 
Lowe, a flame. 
Low rie. Lawrence. 

Lug, the ear, a handle, 
indie. 

jmall wooden 
nth a handle. 

Linn, tin' ehteney. 
Lnnch, a large piece of 

Lnnt, a colomn of smoke; 

grey. 



M. 
. more. 

!.Mair, i 

Maist, most, almost. 
Lilt, a ballad, a tune, to Maistly, mostly. 

sing. Mak, to make. 

Limmer, a kept mistress, Mailen, farm. 

a strumpet, liailie, .Molly. 

Limp't, limped, hobbled. Bfang, among. 

Liuk, to trip along. .Manse, theiuinister'shouse 



GLOSSARY. 



257 



Manteele, a mantle. 

Mark,marks, (This and se- 
veral other nouns which 
in English require an s, 
to form the plural, are| 



Mirk, dark. 

Misca', to abuse, to call 

names. 
Mislear'd, mischievous, 
unmannerly. 



in Scotch, like the words 1 Misteuk, mistook, 



sheep, deer, the same in 

both numbers.) 
Mar's year, the year 1715. 
Mashlum, Meslin, mixed 

corn. 
Mask, to mash. 
Maskin-pot, a tea-pot. 
Maukin, a hare. 
Maun, must. 
Mavis, the thrush. 
Maw, to mow. 
Meere, a mare. 
Meickle, or Meikle, much 
Melancholius, mournful. 
Melder, corn or grain, 

sent to be ground. 
Mell, to meddle, a mallet. 
Mel vie, to soil with meal. 
Men', to mend. 
Mense, good manners. 
Menseless, ill-bred, rude. 
Messin, a small dog. 
Midden, a dunghill. 
Midden-creels, baskets for 

holding duns;, 
Midden-hole, a gutter at a 

dunghill. 
Mim,prim,affectedly meek 
Min', mind, resemblance. 
Mind't, mind it, resolved, 

intending. 
Minnie, mother, dam. 



Mither, a mother. 

Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly 
mixed. 

Moil, labour. 

Moistify, to moisten. 

Mony, or Monie, many. 

Moop, to nibble as a sheep. 

Moorlan', of or belonging 
to moors. 

Morn, to morrow. 

Mou, the mouth. 

Moudiewort, a mole. 

Mousie, dimin. of mouse. 

Muckle, or Mickle, great, 
big, much. 

Musie, dimin. of muse. 

Muslin-kail, broth, com- 
posed simply of water, 
shelled barley and greens 

Mutchkin, an English pint. 

Mysel, myself. 

N. 
NA, no, not, nor. 
Nae, no, not any. 
Naig, a horse. 
Nappy, ale. 
Negleckit, neglected. 
Tieuk, nook. 
Niest, next. 
Nieve, the fist. 
Niffer, an exchange. 



3o8 

Niger, a Negro. 
Nine-tailed-cat, a hang 
man's whip. 

Nit, a nut. 

Norland, north land. 

. 'lack cattle. 

O. 
(V,of. 

< kmel*,iiame of mountains. 

Ohaith! O faith! an oath. 

< toy, or < mie, any. 

< >r, \b often used for ere. 

< >r;t, or < Mr i, su p ( til u< m>. 

unwanted. 
0% of it. 
Oughtlins, in theleasl de- 

< taile, shivering, drooping. 
< hirBeiyOrourseTs,ourselves 

< hitlers, cattle cot housed. 
Ower, 

( >wr. -hip, a way of ffetch- 

a blow with the 
hammer over the arm. 

]'. 

PA< K. intimate, familiar 

twelve stone of wool. 

Painch, paunch. 

Paitrick, a partridge. 

Pan.;, to cram. 

Parle, speech. 
Parriten, oatmeal pud- 
ding. 

Pat, did put, a pot. 
Pattle. or pettle, a plough-i 
-tuff. 



GLOSSARY. 



Paughty proud, haughty. 

I'anky or Paw km, cun- 

ning, sly. 
1'ay't, paid, beat. 
Pech, to fetch the breath 

-hoit, aa in an asthma. 

Pechan, the stomach. 

Pet, a domesticated 9heep, 
fee. 

Pettle, to cherish. 

Phillibegs, short petti- 
coats won by the High- 
landmen. 

Ph raise, lair speeches, 
flattery, to flatter. 

Phraisin, Ba tt e ry. 

Pibroch, a Highland war- 
song adapted to tlie bag- 
pipe. 

Pickle, a small Quantity. 

Pine, pain, uneasiness. 
Pit, to put. 

Placed, a public procla- 
mation. 

Plack, an old Scottish coin, 
the third part ofa Sesieh 
penny, twelve of* which 

make an BngUsfa penny. 

Plaid, an outer loose gar- 
ment. 
Platie, dimin. of plate. 
Plew,or Plengh, a plough. 

trick. 
Poek, a bag, a small sack. 
Poind, to seize on cattle. 
Poortith, poverty. 
Pon, to pull. 



GLOSSARY. 



a59 



Pouk, to pluck. 

Pouse, to push, to pene-j 
trate. 

Poussie, a hare, a cat. 

Pout, a poult, a chick. 

Pou't, did pull. 

Pouthery, like powder. 

Pow, the head, the skull. 

Pownie, a little horse. 

Powther, powder. 

Preen , a pin. 

Prent, printing. 

Prie, to taste. 

Prie'd, tasted. 

Prief, proof. 

Prig,to cheapen , to dispute 

Primsie, demure, precise. 

Propone, to lay down, to 
propose. 

Provoses, provosts. 

Pyle, a pyle o' caff, a sin- 
gle grain of chaff. 

Q. 
QUAK, to quake. 
Quat, to quit. 
Quey, a cow from one to 
two years old. 



R. 

RAGWEED, herb rag- 
wort. 

Raible, to rattle nonsense. 

Rair, to roar. 

Raize, to madden, to in- 
flame. 

Ram-feezl'd, fatigued, 
overspread. 



Ram-stam, thoughtless, 
forward. 

Raploch, properly a course 
cloth, but used as an 
ad-noun for coarse. 

Rarely, excellently. 

Rash, a rush; rash-buss, a 
bush of rushes. 

Ratton, a rat. 

Raucle, stout, fearless. 

Raught, reached. 

Raw, a row. 

Rax, to stretch. 

Ream, cream ; to cream. 

Reamin, brimful, frothing. 

Reave, rove. 

Reck, to heed. 

Rede, counsel, to counsel. 

Red-wat-shod, walking in 
blood over the shoe-tops. 

Red wud, stark mad. 

Ree, half-drunk, fuddled. 

Reek, smoke. 

Remead, remedy. 

Rest, to stand restive. 

Restit, stood restive,stunt- 
ed, withered. 

Rew, repent. 

Rief, reef, plenty. 

Rief randies, sturdy beg- 
gars. 

Rig, a ridge. 

Rin, to run, to melt. 

Rink, the course of the 
stones in curling on ice. 

Rip, a handful of un- 
threshed corn. 

Riskit, made a noise. 



360 

RiOCkin, spinning ( .u Ju- 

n>,-k, or distaff. 
Roon, b died. 

. plentiful. 

to imp. 
■ i low, to bellow. 
Ron to, «> r rout b, 

■ 

Rankled, wrinkled 



- \i;\ . 



loathing, to 



Sconner, 

loathe. 
Scraicb, to scream 

hen, partridge, flee. 
Screed, to tear, a rent. 

ra it'lly 

;ili-HL r . 
Scrimp, to seaat. 
See'd, ili 

I body's sel, 

one's .-elf atone. 
Sell't,did tell. 



Hunt. ' 



liutli, - 

3. 



- 

shirt. 

■ill. 
saint. 

to da- 

. | nrc. 

, tot 

•111. 
Scaur, apt to | 

i 



. settling; to | 

settlin, t.. i 
into fpi i . 

haird, a shred, ;i shard, 
stick cleft at 

r putting the 
. into. 

:i barber. 

Shaw, small 

' in a hollow pi 
Sheen, bright, shining. 

think 
iheep- 
. to be concaitea 
a ditch, a trench, 

hid, ;i - 

rill. 

k, a push <-H" 

- side. 
botcL 

Iioiihlcr. 



Sic, such. 

Sicker, sure, steady 

Sidelins, sidelong, slanting 

Siller, silver, money 

Simmer, a summer. 

Sin, a son. 

Sin', since. 

Skellum ,a worthless fellow 

Skelp, to strike, to walk 

with a smart trippin; 

step, a smart stroke. 
Skelpi-limmer, a technical 

term in female scolding. 
Skelpin, stepping,walkins:. 
Skiegh, or Skeigh, proud, 

nice, high-mettled. 
Skinklin, a small portion, 
Skirl, to shriek, to cry 

shrilly. 
Skirl't, shrieked. 
Sklent, slant, to run aslant, 

to deviate from truth, 
Skreigh, a scream, to 

scream. 
Slae, sloe. 
Slade, did slide. 
Slap, a gate, a breach in a 

fence. 
Slaw, slow. 

Slee, sly; Sleest, slyest. 
Sieekit,' sleek, sly. 
Sliddery, slippery. 
Slype, to fall over. 
Slypet, fell. 
Sma', small. 
Smeddum, dust, powder, 

mettle, sense. 
Smiddy, a smithy. 



361 

Smoor, to smother. 

Smoor'd, smothered. 

Smoutie, obscene. 

Smytrie, a numerous col- 
lection of small indivi- 
duals. 

Snapper, stumble. 

Snash, abuse, Billingsgate. 

Snaw, snow, to snow. 

Snaw-broo, melted snow. 

Sneck, latch of a door. 

Sned, to lop, to cut off. 

Sneeshin, snuff. 

Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box. 

Snell, bitter, biting. 

Snick-drawing, trick, con- 
triving. 

Snick, the latchet of a door 

Snool, one whose spirit is 
broken with oppressive 
slavery ; to submit tame- 
ly, to sneak. 

Snoo ve, to go smoothly and 
constantly, to sneak. 

Snowk, to scent or snuff 
as a dog. 

Sonsie, having sweet, en- 
gaging looks,lucky,j oily 

Soom, to swim. 

Sooth, truth, a petty oath. 

Sough, or sugh, a sigh, a 
sound dying on the'ear. 

Souple, flexible, swift. 

Souter, a shoemaker. 

Sowens, a dish made of the 
seeds of oatmeal soured 
and boiled up to make a 
pudding. 



3li2 O LOSS ART. 

Sowp, a spoonful, a smalll Squatter, to flutter as a 
quantity of any thing wild (luck, fee, 
liquid. Sqnattle, to sprawl. 

.to try nvrr u tune Squeel,a scTeam,aecraaeh, 

with a low w Iii -T !. -. to sen am. 

- to i ilder, Stacher, to stagger. 

to cement Stack, a nek of aora, hay, 

''.in. fca, 
Spaul, a linil). ;••. iliiain. of stii'j,"- 

j to dash, to soil. Stalwart, strong, stout. 
Spai let,ha\ tag the spai in. Stan, to stand ; stan't did 
ing stand, 
torrent, utter rain or Stane, a stone, 
thaw. Stank, did .stink; a pool of 

. t.» ollmb. -- t ; 1 1 1 < i i 1 1 >_r water* 

, tin- parlour. Step. st<.p. 

• i ;i~k, to in., -'out. 

i, Inquired. Startle, to inn sj cattle 

Splatter, a splutter, to stung by the gadfly. 

splutter. Staurarel, a blockhead, 

Spleughan, a tobacco half-witted. 

DOUCh. . did Steal) to surfeit. 

Splore, a frolic, a noise. Stech, taeran the heily. 

to scramble. Steek, to shut, a stitch. 
-iir. 
h- 1. . Arm, c impact, 

fsj)riii' r r,:i(juickair in luiisic. 9 

- > r t i — 1 * reel , to rear ;;- a horse. 

Sjirit, a plant. something Stents, tribute, dues of any 



like I 

Spunk, lire, mettle, wit. 
Spunk 

will-u'-wi-p, or 
fatuiis. 

Spurt le, a stick used in 
making pudding or por- 
ridge. " 

Squad, a crew, a party. 



kind. 

tteap. 

Stibble. stubble; stibble- 
tnen uper who takes 
the lead. 
Stick an slow, totally, al- 

t'.ef. 

i crutch j to halt, to 
limp. 



Stimpart, the eighth of a 
Winchester bushel. 

Stirk, a cow or bullock a 
year old. 

Stock, a plant or root of 
colewort, cabbage, &c. 

Stockin, stocking; throw- 
ing the stockin', when 
the bride and bridegroom 
are put into bed, and the 
candle out, the former 
throws a stocking at ran- 
dom among the compa- 
ny, and the person whom 
it strikes is the next that 
will be married 

Stooked, made up in shocks 
as corn. 

Stoor, sounding hollow 
strong and hoarse. 

Stot, an ox. 

Stoup, or Stowp, a kind of 
jug with a handle. 

Stoure, dust. 

Stowlins, by stealth 

Stowu, stolen. 

Stoyte, stumble. 

Strack, did strike. 

Strae, straw; to die a fair 
strae death, to die in bed. 

Straik, did strike. 

Straikit, stroked. 

Strappan, tall and hand- 
some. 

Straught, straight. 

Streek, stretched, to 
stretch* 

Stroan, to spout, to piss. 



Studdie, an anvil. 
Stumpie, dimin. of stump. 
Strunt, spirituous liquor 

of any kind; to walk 

sturdily. 
Sturtin, frighted. 
Sucker, sugar. 
Sud, should. 
Suthron, southern, an old 

name for the English 

nation. 
Swaird, sward. 
SwalPd, swelled. 
Swank, stately, jolly. 
Swankie, or swanker, a 

tight strapping young 

fellow or girl. 
Swap, an exchange, to 

barter. 
Swarf, swoon. 
Swat, did sweat. 
Swatch, a sample. 
Swats, drink, good ale. 
Sweaten, sweating. 
Sweer, lazy, averse ; dead- 

sweer, extremely averse. 
Swoor, swore, did swear. 
Swinge, to beat, to whip. 
Swirl, a curve, an eddying 

blast, or pool, a knot in 

wood. 
Swirlie, knaggy, full of 

knots. 
Swith, get away. 
Swither, to hesitate in 

choice, an irresolute wa- 
vering in choice. 
Syne, since, ago, then. 



3G4 



TACKET8,akindof nails, 
fbrdriving into the heel 
of shoes. 
Tar, a toe; three-tae'd, 
h:i\ ing three p 
target 
Tak,totake ; takin, taking. 

-weed. 
Tap, the top. 

lapel i, fool- 

ish. 

. I • mnrmoratoae 

allow 

T;in-u'.\'t, mormared. 

Tarr\-!>n i ks, a sailor. 

Tanld, or tald. told. 
Taupie, a foolish thought" 

Taatcl. or taiifie. matted 

of heir 

or v. 



Thack, thatch; thack an 
rape, clothing. 

Thae, these. 

Thairms, small-guts, fid- 
dle-stilnga. 

Thankit, thanked. 

Theekit, thatched. 

rhegither, together. 
I, themselves. 

Thick, intimate, familiar. 

Thieveless. cold, dry, spit- 
ed : spoken of a person's 
demeanomr. 

Thir. these. 

Thirl, to thrill. 

Thirled, thrilled, vibrated. 

Tliole, to -.iti' r, to endure. 

Thowe, B thaw, to thaw. 
L -lack, lazy. 

Thrang. throng, a crowd. 

Th rapple, throat, wind pipe. 

Thraw, to Sprain, to twist, 



Tawie, that allows itself to contradict 

-Thraw in, twisting, &C 
. Thiawn, sprained, twisted, 
contradicted, contradic- 
tion. 

p, to maintain by 

dint of assertion. 



• aiily to be 
died ; spoken of a 

COW . 

Teat, a small quantity. 
Tedding, spreading 

the mower. 
Ten-bours-bite, a BlightlThreshin, thn 
feed to the horses wnilelTbreteen, thrrt 
in the yoke, in the fore-rTbristle, thistle. 

noon. " Through, to go on with, 

ed. iThrouthcr, pell-mell, con- 
Tentie, heedful, caution-, i fiiscdly. 

Thumpit, thuni]K;d. 
Tengh, tough. Thysel, thvself. 



GLOSSARY. 



Thud, to make a loud in- 
termittent noise ; a blow 
producing a dull heavy 
sound. 

Till't, to it. 

Timmer, timber. 

Timmer-propt, propped 
with timber. 

Tine, to lose ; tint, lost. 

Tinkler, a tinker. 

Tint the gate, lost the way. 

Tip, a ram. 

Tippence, two-pence. 

Tirl, to make a slight noise, 
to uncover. 

Tirlin, uncovering. 

Tither, the other. 

Tittle, to whisper. 

Tittlin, whispering. 

Tocher, marriage portion. 

Tod, a fox. 

Toddle, to totter, like, the 
walk of a child. 

Toddlin, tottering. 

Toom, empty. 

Toop, a ram*. 

Toun, a hamlet, a farm- 
house. 

Tout, the blast of a horn 
or trumpet, to blow a 
horn, &c. 

Tow, a rope. 

Towmond, a twelvemonth. 

Towzie, rough, shaggy. 

Toy, a very old fashion of 
female head-dress. 

Toyte, to totter like old 



365 

Transmugrify'd, transmi- 
grated, metamorphosed. 

Trashtrie, trash. 

Trews, trowsers. 

Trickie, full of tricks. 

Trig, spruce, neat. 

Trimly, excellently. 

Trow, to believe. 

Trowth, truth,a petty oath. 

Trysted, appointed ; to 
tryste, to make an ap- 
pointment. 

Try't, tried. 

Tug, raw hide, of which, 
in old times, plough- 
traces were frequently 
made. 

Tulzie, a quarrel ; to quar- 
rel, to fight. 

Twa, two. 

Twa-three, a few. 

'Twad, it would. 

Twal, twelve ; twal-pennie 
worth, a small quantity, 
oneEnglish pennyworth. 

Twin, to part. 

Tyke, a dog. 

U. 

UNCO, strange, uncouth, 
very, very great, prodi- 
gious. 

Uncos, news. 

Unfauld, unfold. 

Unkenn'd, unknown. 

Unsicker, unsure. 

Unskaith'd, undamaged. 

Unweeting, unknowingly. 



300 GLOSS 

Dp .', upon. 
Urchin, a hedgehog. 

V. 

YAI'KIX, vapo uri ng, 

bullying, bragging. 
Vanillic, rain, proua. 

ve ry . 

\ ill, B riir_" round a CO- 
lllli: . . 

w. 

w Wwall. 
v a's, walls. 
Wabater, a weaver. 
Wad, would, to bet, ;i bet, 



a pledge. 
\\ adna. w 



, would not 

• wt'ul. 

I » tin- pity. 
Waft, the cross thread thai 
goes from the shuttle 
. i the wilt; woof. 
Waifu', wailing. 
AVair, to lay out, : 

peud. 
Wale, choice, to choose. 

chosen. 
Walie, amjile, large, jolly; 
i an interjection of 
distress. 
"Wame. the belly. 
Wamefu', a bdrj full. 
Wanebansie, onlneky. 
Wanrestfa'. r 
Wark, work. 
Warl, or warldj world. 



Wark-lume, a tool to work 

with. 
Warlock, a wizard. 
Warly, worldly, eager on 

amassing wealth. 
War ran, a warrant, to 

warrant. 
Warst. worst. 
Warstrd, or warsl'd, 

wrestled. 
Wastrie, prodigality. 

V. :it, wet ; I wat, I wot, 
I know. 

\\ ater-liro.se, brose made 
of oatmeaj ami water. 

Wattle, a t!Wtg, a wand. 

Wauble, toswfcaa;, to reel. 

Wauffht, draught. 

Waukit, thickened as ful- 
lers do (doth. 

Wank rile, not apt to sleep. 
i worst. 

Wanrt, worsted. 

Wean, or weanie, a child. 

Wearie, or weary ; monie 
a wearie body, many a 

different person. 
- ujd. 

Wearing the stocking. Bee 
throwing the stocking, 

V. ee, little ; wee things, 
little ones; wee bit, a 
small matter. 

Weel, well. 

Weelfare, welfare, 
m, wetness. 

Weird, fate. 



We'se, we shall. 

Wha, who. 

Whaizle, to wheeze. 

Whalpit, whelped. 

Whang, a leathern string, 
a piece of cheese, bread, 
&c. ; to give the strap- 
pado. 

Whare, where; whare'er. 
wherever. 

Whase, whose. 

Whatreck, nevertheless. 

Whaup, the curlew ; a kind 
of water-fowl. 

Wheep, to fly nimbly, to 
jerk ; penny-wheep, 
small beer. 

Whid, the motion of 
hare, running but not 
frighted, a lie. 

Whidden, running as a 
hare or coney. 

Whigmeleeries, whims, 
fancies, crotchets. 

Whingiu, crying, com- 
plaining, fretting. 

Whirligigums, useless or- 
naments. 

Whirrin, whirring ; the 
sound made by the flight 
of the partridge, &c. 

Whisht, silence, 

Whisk, to sweep, to lash 

Whiskit, lashed. 

Whissle, a whistle; to 
whistle. 

Whitter, a hearty draught 
of liquor. 



367 

Whunstane, a whinstone. 

Whyles, sometimes. 

Wi', with. 

Wick, to strike a stone in 
an oblique direction; a 
term in curling. 

Wicker , willow, (the small- 
er sort). 

Widdieful,wrathful,angry, 
raging; one deserving 
the gallows. 

Wiel, a small whirlpool. 

Wine, a dimin. or endear- 
g term for wife. 

Willyart,bashful,reserved, 
timid. 

Wimple, to meander. 

Win, to win, to winnow. 

Win't, winded, as a bottom 
of jam. 

Win', wind; win's, winds. 

Winna, will not. 

Winnock, a window. 

Winsome,hearty, vaunted, 
gay. 

Wintle, a staggering mo- 
tion ; to stagger, to reel, 

Winze, an oath. 

Wiss, to wish ; to have a 
strong desire. 

Withoutten, without. 

Witless, simple, easily, 
imposed on. 

Wizen'd, dried, shrunk. 

Wonner, a wonder, a con- 
temptuous appellation, 

Wons, dwells. 

Woo', wool. 



368 gloss 

Woo, to court, to make 
love to. 

Woodie, a rope, m<>! 

.■ made of withe 

Of willows. 

Wooer-bab, the garter 
knotted below the knee 
with ;i couple of loops. 
Wordy, worthy. 
Worset, worsted. 
Wow, an exclamation of 
pleasure <>r wonder, 
ase, to vox. 
Wraith, it spirit, u «_rh<tst ; 
an apparitioa ■ 

a living person 
whose 

foTDode the per* 
approaching death 

; Bnow. 

Writers, attorneys, law* 

J ' »■ 
\\ ad-mad, distracted. 
Wnmble, a wimble. 
Wyle, b 
Wyliecoat,a flannel vest. 



Wyte, blame, to blame. 

Y. 

YE; this pronoun is f 
quently used for thoi 

Year, is ased both for b 
gularand plural, yeai 

Yearlings, born inthesf 

<-\als. 

Yearns, longs mnch. 
Yell, barren, that give. 

milk. 
York, to !; 

\ erkit, jerked, lashed, 
sight, f 

uighl b 

Yd", B gate, Mich as 

tonally at the entranc 
Intoafarm-yard or field. 

Yill,ale. 

Yinl, earth. 

Yokin, yoking, a bout. 

\ ont, I" 

Yonrsel, yourself. 

Yowio, dimin. ol' ewe. 
Yule, Christmas. 



HiUer, Printer, Swine Market, Halifki. 



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